ND-OTHeR 


CCA5ICWL 


J 


Cafifotnta  Q&ooft  Cfufi 


TH€ 

UNIY6RS1TY  Of  CALIFORNIA 
LIBRARY 


POEMS.  Htnisehold  Edition.  With  Portrait.  i2mo,$i.7s; 
full  gilt,  $2.25. 

Family  Edition.     Illustrated.     8vo,  $2.50. 

Handy-  Volume  Edition.     With  Portrait.     2  vpls.  321110,  $2  50. 

Illustrated  Library  Edition.  With  Illustrations  and  Portrait. 
Svo,  $3.50. 

BEFORE  THE  CURFEW.     i6mo,  fusj, 

SONGS  IN  MANY  KEYS.     i6mo,  $1.50. 

ASTR/EA:  The  Balance  of  Illusions.     i6mo,  75  cents. 

SONGS  OF   MANY   SEASONS.     i6mo,  $2.00. 

THE   SCHOOL-BOY.     Illustrated.     4to,  #2.50. 

THE  IRON  GATE,  and  other  Poems.  With  Portrait.  i2mo,  $1.25, 

ILLUSTRATED  POEMS.  With  etched  Portrait  and  Illustrations. 
Royal  Svo,  $4.00. 

THE  LAST  LEAF.  With  twenty  full-page  phototypes,  and  other 
decorations.  Quarto,  $10.00. 

GRANDMOTHER'S  STORY,  etc.     i6mo,  paper,  15  cents. 

THE  AUTOCRAT  OF  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  With  Por 
trait.  Crown  Svo,  $2.00. 

Handy- Volume  Edition.     321110,  $1.25. 

THE  PROFESSOR  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.  Crown 
Svo,  $2.00. 

THE  POET  AT  THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE.    Crown  Svo, $2.00. 

ELSIE  VENNER.     Crown  Svo,  $2.00. 

THE  GUARDIAN  ANGEL.    A  Novel.     Crown  Svo,  $2.00. 

PAGES    FROM    AN    OLD    VOLUME   OF    LIFE.     Crown   Svo, 

A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.     Crown  8vo,  $1.50. 

OUR  HUNDRED  DAYS  IN  EUROPE.     Crown  Svo,  $1.50. 

MEDICAL  ESSAYS.     Crown  Svo,  $2.00. 

THE  BREAKFAST-TABLE  SERIES,  together  with  Elsie  Ven- 
ner,  The  Guardian  Angel,  Pages  from  an  Old  Volume  of  Life, 
A  Mortal  Antipathy,  Medical  Essays,  Our  Hundred  Days  in 
Europe,  and  Poems  (Household  Edition).  10  vols.  $17.00. 

JOHN  LOTHROP  MOTLEY.     i6mo,  $1.50. 

RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON.     With  Portrait.     i6mo,  $1.25. 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &   COMPANY, 

BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


BEFORE  THE  CURFEW 

AND    OTHER   POEMS,   CHIEFLY 
OCCASIONAL 


BY 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 


1888 


Copyright,  1888, 
Br  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge  : 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  0.  Houghton  &  Co. 


AT  MY  FIRESIDE. 

ALONE,  beneath  the  darkened  sky, 

With  saddened  heart  and  unstrung  lyre, 
I  heap  the  spoils  of  years  gone  by, 
And  leave  them  with  a  long-drawn  sigh, 
Like  drift-wood  brands  that  glimmering  lie, 
Before  the  ashes  hide  the  fire. 


Let  not  these  slow  declining  days 
The  rosy  light  of  dawn  outlast; 
Still  round  my  lonely  hearth  it  plays, 
And  gilds  the  east  with  borrowed  rays, 
While  memory's  mirrored  sunset  blaze 

Flames  on  the  windows  of  the  past. 
March  1, 1888. 


397145 


CONTENTS. 


NOTE. —  The  poems  marked  thus,  1829-1882,  etc.,  were  written 
for  and  read  at  the  annual  meetings  of  the  class  which  graduated  at 
Harvard  University  in  1829. 

PAGE 

BEFORE  THE  CURFEW      .        .        .        .        .        .1 

A  LOVING-CUP  SONG  «        .       .       .       ./6 

THE  GIRDLE  OF  FRIENDSHIP  .        .        .        .      /»      8 

THE  LYRE  OF  ANACREON 10 

THE  OLD  TUNE        ._     .        .        .       .'     .        .13 

THE  BROKEN  CIRCLE   ...        .        .        .        .        15 

THE  ANGEL-THIEF   .        .  .        .        .        .18 

AT  THE  SATURDAY  CLUB    .        .        .        .        .        20 

BENJAMIN  PEIRCE    .        .        .        .        .        .        .27 

OUR  DEAD  SINGER       .       . .        .        .        ...        29 

To  JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE  .        .        .  •     .        .31 
Two  POEMS  TO    HARRIET  BEECHER  STOWE    ON 
HER  SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY. 

I.  AT  THE  SUMMIT       .        .        .        .        .        33 

II.  THE  WORLD'S  HOMAGE       .       ...    34 

A  WELCOME  TO  DR.  BENJAMIN  APTHORP  GOULD        37 
To  FREDERICK  HENRY  HEDGE       .        .        .        .40 

To  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL        ....        42 


•VI  CONTENTS. 

To  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER        .  .        .45 

PRELUDE  TO  A  VOLUME  PRINTED  IN  RAISED  LET 
TERS  FOR  THE  BLIND        .       ..        .        .        .        46 

BOSTON  TO  FLORENCE      .        .       .  ,        .48 

AT  THE  UNITARIAN  FESTIVAL    .      ._»        .        .        49 
POEM  FOR  THE    Two  HUNDRED    AND    FIFTIETH 
ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  FOUNDING  OF  HARVARD 

COLLEGE 50 

POST-PRANDIAL 69 

THE  FLANEUR .72 

AVE      .........        78 

KING'S  CHAPEL.    READ  AT  THE  Two  HUNDREDTH 

ANNIVERSARY 80 

HYMN  FOR  THE  SAME  OCCASION  ....        84 
HYMN.  —  THE  WORD  OF  PROMISE  .        .        .        .86 
HYMN  READ  AT  THE  DEDICATION  OF  THE  OLIVER 
WENDELL  HOLMES  HOSPITAL  AT  HUDSON,  WIS 
CONSIN,  JUNE  7,  1887 88 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  PRESIDENT  GARFIELD     .        .    90 

THE  GOLDEN  FLOWER 94 

No  TIME  LIKE  THE  OLD  TIME        .        .        .        .96 

THE  MORNING  VISIT 98 

HAIL,  COLUMBIA  !      .        .        .        .        .        .        .103 

POEM  FOR  THE  DEDICATION  OF  THE  FOUNTAIN  AT 
STRATFORD-ON-AVON,    PRESENTED    BY  GEORGE 
W.  CHILDS,  OF  PHILADELPHIA         .        .        .       106 
To  THE  POETS  WHO  ONLY  READ  AND  LISTEN      .  110 


BEFORE  THE  CURFEW 

AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


BEFORE   THE   CURFEW. 

1829-1882. 

NOT  bed-time  yet !     The  night-winds  blow, 
The  stars  are  out,  —  full  well  we  know 

The  nurse  is  on  the  stair, 
With  hand  of  ice  and  cheek  of  snow, 
And  frozen  lips  that  whisper  low, 
"  Come,  children,  it  is  time  to  go 

My  peaceful  couch  to  share." 

No  years  a  wakeful  heart  can  tire  ; 
Not  bed-time  yet !     Come,  stir  the  fire 

And  warm  your  dear  old  hands  ; 
Kind  Mother  Earth  we  love  so  well 
Has  pleasant  stories  yet  to  tell 
Before  we  hear  the  curfew  bell ; 

Still  glow  the  burning  brands. 

Not  bed-time  yet !     We  long  to  know 

What  wonders  time  has  yet  to  show, 

What  unborn  years  shall  bring ; 


,  BEFORE  THE  CURFE  W. 

ship  "the  "Arctic  pole  shall  reach, 
What  lessons  Science  waits  to  teach, 
What  sermons  there  are  left  to  preach, 
What  poems  yet  to  sing.  . 

What  next  ?  we  ask ;  and  is  it  true 
The  sunshine  falls  on  nothing  new, 

As  Israel's  king  declared  ? 
Was  ocean  ploughed  with  harnessed  fire  ? 
Were  nations  coupled  with  a  wire  ? 
Did  Tarshish  telegraph  to  Tyre  ? 

How  Hiram  would  have  stared  ! 

And  what  if  Sheba's  curious  queen, 
Who  came  to  see,  —  and  to  be  seen,  — 

Or  something  new  to  seek, 
And  swooned,  as  ladies  sometimes  do, 
At  sights  that  thrilled  her  through  and  through, 
Had  heard,  as  she  was  "  coming  to," 

A  locomotive's  shriek, 

And  seen  a  rushing  railway  train 
As  she  looked  out  along  the  plain 

From  David's  lofty  tower,  — 
A  mile  of  smoke  that  blots  the  sky 
And  blinds  the  eagles  as  they  fly 
Behind  the  cars  that  thunder  by 

A  score  of  leagues  an  hour  ! 


BEFORE  THE   CURFEW.  3 

See  to  my  fiat  lux  respond 

This  little  slumbering  fire-tipped  wand,  — 

One  touch,  —  it  bursts  in  flame  ! 
Steal  me  a  portrait  from  the  sun,  — 
One  look,  —  and  lo !  the  picture  done ! 
Are  these  old  tricks,  King  Solomon, 

We  lying  moderns  claim  ? 

Could  you  have  spectroscoped  a  star  ? 
If  both  those  mothers  at  your  bar, 

The  cruel  and  the  mild, 
The  young  and  tender,  old  and  tough, 
Had    said,     "  Divide,  —  you  're    right,     though 

rough,"  — 
Did  old  Judea  know  enough 

To  etherize  the  child  ? 

These  births  of  time  our  eyes  have  seen, 
With  but  a  few  brief  years  between ; 

What  wonder  if  the  text, 
For  other  ages  doubtless  true, 
For  coming  years  will  never  do,  — 
Whereof  we  all  should  like  a  few 

If  but  to  see  what  next. 

If  such  things  have  been,  such  may  be  ; 
Who  would  not  like  to  live  and  see  — 

If  Heaven  may  so  ordain  — 
What  waifs  undreamed  of,  yet  in  store, 
The  waves  that  roll  forevermore 


BEFORE  THE   CURFEW. 

On  life's  long  beach  may  cast  ashore 
From  out  the  mist-clad  main  ? 

Will  Earth  to  pagan  dreams  return 
To  find  from  misery's  painted  urn 

That  all  save  hope  has  flown,  — 
Of  Book  and  Church  and  Priest  bereft, 
The  Rock  of  Ages  vainly  cleft, 
Life's  compass  gone,  its  anchor  left, 

Left,  —  lost,  —  in  depths  unknown  ? 

Shall  Faith  the  trodden  path  pursue 
The  crux  ansata  wearers  knew 

Who  sleep  with  folded  hands, 
Where,  like  a  naked,  lidless  eye, 
The  staring  Nile  rolls  wondering  by 
Those  mountain  slopes  that  climb  the  sky 

Above  the  drifting  sands  ? 

Or  shall  a  nobler  Faith  return, 
Its  fanes  a  purer  gospel  learn, 

With  holier  anthems  ring, 
And  teach  us  that  our  transient  creeds 
Were  but  the  perishable  seeds 
Of  harvests  sown  for  larger  needs 

That  ripening  years  shall  bring  ? 

Well,  let  the  present  do  its  best, 
We  trust  our  Maker  for  the  rest, 
As  on  our  way  we  plod  ; 


BEFORE   THE  CURFEW.  \ 

Our  souls,  full  dressed  in  fleshly  suits, 
Love  air  and  sunshine,  flowers  and  fruits, 
The  daisies  better  than  their  roots 
Beneath  the  grassy  sod. 

Not  bed-time  yet !     The  full-blown  flower 
Of  all  the  year  —  this  evening  hour  — 

With  friendship's  flame  is  bright ; 
Life  still  is  sweet,  the  heavens  are  fair, 
Though  fields  are  brown  and  woods  are  bare, 
And  many  a  joy  is  left  to  share 

Before  we  say  Good-night ! 

And  when,  our  cheerful  evening  past, 
The  nurse,  long  waiting,  comes  at  last, 

Ere  on  her  lap  we  lie 
In  wearied  nature's  sweet  repose, 
At  peace  with  all  her  waking  foes, 
Our  lips  shall  murmur,  ere  they  close, 

Good-night !  and  not  Good-by ! 


A  LOVING-CUP  SONG. 

1829-1883. 

COME,  heap  the  fagots  !     Ere  we  go 
Again  the  cheerful  hearth  shall  glow ; 

We  '11  have  another  blaze,  my  boys  ! 
When  clouds  are  black  and  snows  are  white, 
Then  Christmas  logs  lend  ruddy  light 

They  stole  from  summer  days,  my  boys, 
They  stole  from  summer  days. 

And  let  the  Loving-Cup  go  round, 

The  Cup  with  blessed  memories  crowned, 

That  flows  whene'er  we  meet,  my  boys  ; 
No  draught  will  hold  a  drop  of  sin 
If  love  is  only  well  stirred  in 

To  keep  it  sound  and  sweet,  my  boys, 
To  keep  it  sound  and  sweet. 

Give  me,  to  pin  upon  my  breast, 
The  blossoms  twain  I  love  the  best, 

A  rosebud  and  a  pink,  my  boys ; 
Their  leaves  shall  nestle  next  my  heart, 
Their  perfumed  breath  shall  own  its  part 

In  every  health  we  drink,  my  boys, 
In  every  health  we  drink. 


A  LOVING- CUP  SONG. 

The  breathing  blossoms  stir  my  blood, 
He  thinks  I  see  the  lilacs  bud 

And  hear  the  bluebirds  sing,  my  boys ; 
Why  not  ?     Yon  lusty  oak  has  seen 
Full  tenscore  years,  yet  leaflets  green 

Peep  out  with  every  spring,  rny  boys, 
Peep  out  with  every  spring. 

Old  Time  his  rusty  scythe  may  whet, 
The  unmowed  grass  is  glowing  yet 

Beneath  the  sheltering  snow,  my  boys ; 
And  if  the  crazy  dotard  ask, 
Is  love  worn  out  ?     Is  life  a  task  ? 

"We  '11  bravely  answer  No  !  my  boys, 
We  '11  bravely  answer  No ! 

For  life's  bright  taper  is  the  same 
Love  tipped  of  old  with  rosy  flame 

That  heaven's  own  altar  lent,  my  boys, 
To  glow  in  every  cup  we  fill 
Till  lips  are  mute  and  hearts  are  still, 

Till  life  and  love  are  spent,  my  boys, 
Till  life  and  love  are  spent. 


THE  GIRDLE  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 

1829-1884. 

SHE  gathered  at  her  slender  waist 
The  beauteous  robe  she  wore  ; 

Its  folds  a  golden  belt  embraced, 
One  rose-hued  gem  it  bore. 

The  girdle  shrank  ;  its  lessening  round 

Still  kept  the  shining  gem, 
But  now  her  flowing  locks  it  bound, 

A  lustrous  diadem. 

And  narrower  still  the  circlet  grew  ; 

Behold  !  a  glittering  band, 
Its  roseate  diamond  set  anew, 

Her  neck's  white  column  spanned. 

Suns  rise  and  set ;  the  straining  clasp 

The  shortened  links  resist, 
Yet  flashes  in  a  bracelet's  grasp 

The  diamond,  on  her  wrist. 

At  length,  the  round  of  changes  past 
The  thieving  years  could  bring, 

The  jewel,  glittering  to  the  last, 
Still  sparkles  in  a  ring. 


THE  GIRDLE  OF  FRIENDSHIP. 

So,  link  by  link,  our  friendships  part, 
So  loosen,  break,  and  fall, 

A  narrowing  zone  ;  the  loving  heart 
Lives  changeless  through  them  alL 


THE   LYRE   OF  ANACREON. 

1829-1885. 

THE  minstrel  of  the  classic  lay 

Of  love  and  wine  who  sings 
Still  found  the  fingers  run  astray 

That  touched  the  rehel  strings. 

Of  Cadmus  he  would  fain  have  sung, 

Of  Atreus  and  his  line  ; 
But  all  the  jocund  echoes  rung 

With  songs  of  love  and  wine. 

Ah,  brothers  !  I  would  fain  have  caught 
Some  fresher  fancy's  gleam  ; 

My  truant  accents  find,  unsought, 
The  old  familiar  theme. 

Love,  Love !  but  not  the  sportive  child 
With  shaft  and  twanging  bow, 

Whose  random  arrows  drove  us  wild 
Some  threescore  years  ago  ; 

Not  Eros,  with  his  joyous  laugh, 

The  urchin  blind  and  bare, 
But  Love,  with  spectacles  and  staff, 

And  scanty,  silvered  hair. 


THE  LYRE  OF  ANACREON.  11 

Our  heads  with  frosted  locks  are  white, 
Our  roofs  are  thatched  with  snow, 

But  red,  in  chilling  winter's  spite, 
Our  hearts  and  hearthstones  glow. 

Our  old  acquaintance,  Time,  drops  in, 

And  while  the  running  sands 
Their  golden  thread  unheeded  spin, 

He  warms  his  frozen  hands. 

Stay,  winged  hours,  too  swift,  too  sweet, 

And  waft  this  message  o'er 
To  all  we  miss,  from  all  we  meet 

On  life's  fast-crumbling  shore  : 

Say  that,  to  old  affection  true, 

We  hug  the  narrowing  chain 
That  binds  our  hearts,  —  alas,  how  few 

The  links  that  yet  remain  ! 

The  fatal  touch  awaits  them  all 

That  turns  the  rocks  to  dust ; 
From  year  to  year  they  break  and  fall,  — 

They  break,  but  never  rust. 

Say  if  one  note  of  happier  strain 

This  worn-out  harp  afford,  — 
One  throb  that  trembles,  not  in  vain,  — 

Their  memory  lent  its  chord. 


12  THE  LYRE  OF  AN  ACRE  ON. 

Say  that  when  Fancy  closed  her  wings 
And  Passion  quenched  his  fire, 

Love,  Love,  still  echoed  from  the  strings 
As  from  Anacreon's  lyre ! 


THE   OLD   TUNE. 

THIRTY-SIXTH    VARIATION. 

1829-1886. 

THIS  shred  of  song  you  bid  me  bring 
Is  snatched  from  fancy's  embers  ; 

Ah,  when  the  lips  forget  to  sing, 
The  faithful  heart  remembers  ! 

Too  swift  the  wings  of  envious  Time 

To  wait  for  dallying  phrases, 
Or  woven  strands  of  labored  rhyme 

To  thread  their  cunning  mazes. 

A  word,  a  sigh,  and  lo,  how  plain 

Its  magic  breath  discloses 
Our  life's  long  vista  through  a  lane 

Of  threescore  summers'  roses ! 

One  language  years  alone  can  teach : 

Its  roots  are  young  affections 
That  feel  their  way  to  simplest  speech 

Through  silent  recollections. 

That  tongue  is  ours.     How  few  the  words 
We  need  to  know  a  brother ! 


14  THE  OLD  TUNE. 

As  simple  are  the  notes  of  birds, 
Yet  well  they  know  each  other. 

This  freezing  month  of  ice  and  snow 
That  brings  our  lives  together 

Lends  to  our  year  a  living  glow 
That  warms  its  wintry  weather. 

So  let  us  meet  as  eve  draws  nigh, 
And  life  matures  and  mellows, 

Till  Nature  whispers  with  a  sigh, 
"  Good-night,  my  dear  old  fellows  ! 


THE  BROKEN   CIRCLE. 

1829-1887. 

I  STOOD  on  Sarum's  treeless  plain, 
The  waste  that  careless  Nature  owns  ; 

Lone  tenants  of  her  bleak  domain, 

Loomed  huge  and  gray  the  Druid  stones. 

Upheaved  in  many  a  billowy  mound 

The  sea-like,  naked  turf  arose, 
Where  wandering  flocks  went  nibbling  round 

The  mingled  graves  of  friends  and  foes. 

The  Briton,  Roman,  Saxon,  Dane, 
This  windy  desert  roamed  in  turn  ; 

Unmoved  these  mighty  blocks  remain 
Whose  story  none  that  lives  may  learn. 

Erect,  half  buried,  slant  or  prone, 

These  awful  listeners,  blind  and  dumb, 

Hear  the  strange  tongues  of  tribes  unknown, 
As  wave  on  wave  they  go  and  come. 

"  Who  are  you,  giants,  whence  and   why  ?  " 

I  stand  and  ask  in  blank  amaze  ; 
My  soul  accepts  their  mute  reply : 
"  A  mystery,  as  are  you  that  gaze. 


16  THE  BROKEN  CIRCLE. 

"  A  silent  Orpheus  wrought  the  charm 

From  riven  rocks  their  spoils  to  bring ; 
A  nameless  Titan  lent  his  arm 
To  range  us  in  our  magic  ring. 

"  But  Time  with  still  and  stealthy  stride, 
That  climbs  and  treads  and  levels  all, 
That  bids  the  loosening  keystone  slide, 
And  topples  down  the  crumbling  wall,  — 

"  Time,  that  unbuilds  the  quarried  past, 

Leans  on  these  wrecks  that  press  the  sod  ; 
They  slant,  they  stoop,  they  fall  at  last, 
And  strew  the  turf  their  priests  have  trod. 

"  No  more  our  altar's  wreath  of  smoke 

Floats  up  with  morning's  fragrant  dew  ; 
The  fires  are  dead,  the  ring  is  broke, 
Where  stood  the  many  stand  the  few." 

—  My  thoughts  had  wandered  far  away, 
Borne  off  on  Memory's  outspread  wing, 

To  where  in  deepening  twilight  lay 

The  wrecks  of  friendship's  broken  ring. 

Ah  me  !  of  all  our  goodly  train 

How  few  will  find  our  banquet  hall ! 

Yet  why  with  coward  lips  complain 

That  this  must  lean,  and  that  must  fall  ? 


THE  BROKEN  CIRCLE.  17 

Cold  is  the  Druid's  altar-stone, 

Its  vanished  flame  no  more  returns  ; 

But  ours  no  chilling  damp  has  known,  — 
Unchanged,  unchanging,  still  it  burns. 

So  let  our  broken  circle  stand 

A  wreck,  a  remnant,  yet  the  same, 

While  one  last,  loving,  faithful  hand 
Still  lives  to  feed  its  altar-flame ! 


THE  ANGEL-THIEF. 

1829-1888. 

TIME  is  a  thief  who  leaves  his  tools  behind  him ; 

He  comes  by  night,  he  vanishes  at  dawn ; 
We  track  his  footsteps,  but  we  never  find  him  : 

Strong  locks   are   broken,  massive   bolts   are 
drawn, 

And  all  around  are  left  the  bars  and  borers, 
The  splitting  wedges  and  the  prying  keys, 

Such  aids  as  serve  the  soft-shod  vault-explorers 
To  crack,  wrench  open,  rifle  as  they  please. 

Ah,  these  are  tools  which  Heaven  in  mercy  lends 

us  ! 
When  gathering  rust  has  clenched  our  shackles 

fast, 

Time  is  the  angel-thief  that  Nature  sends  us 
To  break  the  cramping  fetters  of  our  past. 

Mourn  as  we  may  for  treasures  he  has  taken, 
Poor  as  we  feel  of  hoarded  wealth  bereft, 

More  precious  are  those  implements  forsaken, 
Found  in  the  wreck  his  ruthless  hands  have 
left. 


THE  ANGEL-THIEF.  19 

Some  lever  that  a  casket's  hinge  has  broken 
Pries  off  a  bolt,  and  lo !  our  souls  are  free  ; 

Each  year  some  Open  Sesame  is  spoken, 
And  every  decade  drops  its  master-key. 

So  as  from  year  to  year  we  count  our  treasures, 
Our  loss  seems  less,  and  larger  look  our  gains  ; 

Time's  wrongs  repaid  in  more  than  even   mea 
sure,  — 
We  lose  our  jewels,  but  we  break  our  chains. 


AT  THE   SATURDAY  CLUB. 

THIS  is  onr  place  of  meeting  ;  opposite 
That  towered  and  pillared  building :  look  at  it ; 
King's  Chapel  in  the  Second  George's  day, 
Rebellion  stole  its  regal  name  away,  — 
Stone  Chapel  sounded  better ;  but  at  last 
The  poisoned  name  of  our  provincial  past 
Had  lost  its  ancient  venom  ;  then  once  more 
Stone  Chapel  was  King's  Chapel  as  before. 
(So  let  rechristened  North  Street,  when  it  can, 
Bring  back  the  days  of  Marlborough  and  Queen 

Anne  !) 
Next  the  old  church  your  wandering  eye  will 

meet 

A  granite  pile  that  stares  upon  the  street,  — 
Our  civic  temple ;  slanderous  tongues  have  said 
Its   shape  was   modelled  from   Saint  Botolph's 

head, 

Lofty,  but  narrow  ;  jealous  passers-by 
Say  Boston  always  held  her  head  too  high. 

Turn  half-way  round,  and  let  your  look  survey 
The  white  facade  that  gleams  across  the  way,  — 
The  many-windowed  building,  tall  and  wide, 
The  palace-inn  that  shows  its  northern  side 
In  grateful  shadow  when  the  sunbeams  beat 


AT  THE  SATURDAY  CLUB.  21 

The  granite  wall  in  summer's  scorching  heat. 
This  is  the  place  ;  whether  its  name  you  spell 
Tavern,  or  caravansera,  or  hotel. 
Would  I  could  steal  its  echoes  !  you  should  find 
Such  store  of  vanished  pleasures  brought  to  mind  : 
Such  feasts !  the  laughs  of  many  a  jocund  hour 
That   shook   the   mortar  from    King    George's 

tower ; 
Such  guests !     What  famous   names   its  record 

boasts, 

Whose  owners  wander  in  the  mob  of  ghosts ! 
Such  stories  !  every  beam  and  plank  is  filled 
With  juicy  wit  the  joyous  talkers  spilled, 
Ready  to  ooze,  as  once  the  mountain  pine 
The  floors  are  laid  with  oozed  its  turpentine  ! 

A  month  had  flitted  since  The  Club  had  met ; 
The  day  came  round  ;  I  found  the  table  set, 
The  waiters  lounging  round  the  marble  stairs, 
Empty  as  yet  the  double  row  of  chairs. 
I  was  a  full  half  hour  before  the  rest, 
Alone,  the  banquet-chamber's  single  guest. 
So  from  the  table's  side  a  chair  I  took, 
And  having  neither  company  nor  book 
To  keep  me  waking,  by  degrees  there  crept 
A  torpor  over  me,  —  in  short,  I  slept. 

Loosed  from  its  chain,  along  the  wreck-strown 

track 

Of  the  dead  years  my  soul  goes  travelling  back  ; 
My  ghosts  take  on  their  robes  of  flesh  ;  it  seems 


22  AT   THE  SATURDAY  CLUB. 

Dreaming  is  life  ;  nay,  life  less  life  than  dreams, 
So  real  are  the  shapes  that  meet  my  eyes.  — 
They  bring  no  sense  of  wonder,  no  surprise, 
No  hint  of  other  than  an  earth-born  source ; 
All  seems  plain  daylight,  everything  of  course. 
How  dim  the  colors  are,  how  poor  and  faint 
This  palette  of  weak  words  with  which  I  paint ! 
Here  sit  my  friends  ;  if  I  could  fix  them  so 
As  to  my  eyes  they  seem,  my  page  would  glow 
Like  a  queen's  missal,  warm  as  if  the  brush 
Of  Titian  or  Velasquez  brought  the  flush 
Of  life  into  their  features.     Ay  de  mi  ! 
If  syllables  were  pigments,  you  should  see 
Such  breathing  portraitures  as  never  man 
Found  in  the  Pitti  or  the  Vatican. 

Here  sits  our  POET,  Laureate,  if  you  will, 
Long  has  he  worn  the  wreath,  and  wears  it  still. 
Dead  ?     Nay,  not  so  ;  and  yet  they  say  his  bust 
Looks  down  on  marbles  covering  royal  dust, 
Kings  by  the  Grace  of  God,  or  Nature's  grace  ; 
Dead  !     No  !     Alive !     I  see  him  in  his  place, 
Full-featured,  with  the  bloom  that  heaven  denies 
Her   children,   pinched   by  cold  New  England 

skies, 

Too  often,  while  the  nursery's  happier  few 
Win  from  a  summer  cloud  its  roseate  hue. 
Kind,  soft-voiced,  gentle,  in  his  eye  there  shines 
The  ray  serene  that  filled  Evangeline's. 

Modest  he  seems,  not  shy  ;  content  to  wait 


AT  THE  SATURDAY  CLUB.  23 

Amid  the  noisy  clamor  of  debate 

The  looked-for  moment  when  a  peaceful  word 

Smooths  the  rough  ripples  louder  tongues  have 

stirred. 

In  every  tone  I  mark  his  tender  grace 
And  all  his  poems  hinted  in  his  face  ; 
What  tranquil  joy  his  friendly  presence  gives ! 
How  could  I  think  him  dead  ?    He  lives !    He 

lives ! 

There,  at  the  table's  further  end  I  see 
In  his  old  place  our  Poet's  vis-a-vis, 
The  great  PROFESSOR,   strong,  broad-shouldered, 

square, 

In  life's  rich  noontide,  joyous,  debonair. 
His  social  hour  no  leaden  care  alloys, 
His  laugh  rings  loud  and  mirthful  as  a  boy's,  — 
That  lusty  laugh  the  Puritan  forgot,  — 
What  ear  has  heard  it  and  remembers  not  ? 
How  often,  halting  at  some  wide  crevasse 
Amid  the  windings  of  his  Alpine  pass, 
High  up  the  cliffs,  the  climbing  mountaineer, 
Listening  the  far-off  avalanche  to  hear, 
Silent,  and  leaning  on  his  steel-shod  staff, 
Has  heard  that  cheery  voice,  that  ringing  laugh, 
From  the  rude  cabin  whose  nomadic  walls 
Creep  with  the  moving  glacier  as  it  crawls  ! 

How  does  vast  Nature  lead  her  living  train 
In  ordered  sequence  through  that  spacious  brain, 
As  in  the  primal  hour  when  Adam  named 


24  AT  THE  SATURDAY  CLUB. 

The     new-born     tribes    that    young     creation 

claimed !  — 

How  will  her  realm  be  darkened,  losing  thee, 
Her  darling,  whom  we  call  our  AGASSIZ  ! 

But  who  is  he  whose  massive  frame  belies 
The  maiden  shyness  of  his  downcast  eyes  ? 
"Who  broods  in  silence  till,  by  questions  pressed, 
Some  answer  struggles  from  his  laboring  breast  ? 
An  artist  Nature  meant  to  dwell  apart, 
Locked  in  his  studio  with  a  human  heart, 
Tracking  its  caverned  passions  to  their  lair, 
And  all  its  throbbing  mysteries  laying  bare. 

Count  it  no  marvel  that  he  broods  alone 
Over  the  heart  he  studies,  —  't  is  his  own  ; 
So  in  his  page  whatever  shape  it  wear, 
The  Essex  wizard's  shadowed  self  is  there,  — 
The  great  ROMANCER,  hid  beneath  his  veil 
Like  the  stern  preacher  of  his  sombre  tale  ; 
Virile  in  strength,  yet  bashful  as  a  girl, 
Prouder  than  Hester,  sensitive  as  Pearl. 

From  his  mild  throng  of  worshippers  released, 
Oar  Concord  Delphi  sends  its  chosen  priest, 
Prophet  or  poet,  mystic,  sage,  or  seer, 
By  every  title  always  welcome  here. 
Why  that  ethereal  spirit's  frame  describe  ? 
You  know  the  race-marks  of  the  Brahmin  tribe,  — 
The  spare,  slight  form,  the  sloping  shoulders' 
droop, 


AT  THE  SATURDAY  CLUB.  25 

The  calm,  scholastic  mien,  the  clerkly  stoop, 
The  lines  of  thought  the  sharpened  features  wear, 
Carved  by  the  edge  of  keen  New  England  air. 

List !  for  he  speaks  !     As  when  a  king  would 

choose 

The  jewels  for  his  bride,  he  might  refuse 
This  diamond  for  its  flaw,  —  find  that  less  bright 
Than  those,  its  fellows,  and  a  pearl  less  white 
Than  fits  her  snowy  neck,  and  yet  at  last, 
The  fairest  gems  are  chosen,  and  made  fast 
In  golden  fetters  ;  so,  with  light  delays 
He  seeks  the  fittest  word  to  fill  his  phrase ; 
Nor  vain  nor  idle  his  fastidious  quest, 
His  chosen  word  is  sure  to  prove  the  best. 

Where  in  the  realm  of  thought,  whose  air  is 

song, 

Does  he,  the  Buddha  of  the  West,  belong  ? 
He  seems  a  winge'd  Franklin,  sweetly  wise, 
Born  to  unlock  the  secrets  of  the  skies  ; 
And  which  the  nobler  calling,  —  if  't  is  fair 
Terrestrial  with  celestial  to  compare,  — 
To  guide  the  storm-cloud's  elemental  flame, 
Or  walk  the  chambers  whence  the  lightning  came, 
Amidst  the  sources  of  its  subtile  fire, 
And  steal  their  effluence  for  his  lips  and  lyre  ? 

If  lost  at  times  in  vague  aerial  flights, 
None  treads  with  firmer  footstep  when  he  lights  ; 
A  soaring  nature,  ballasted  with  sense, 
Wisdom  without  her  wrinkles  or  pretence, 
In  every  Bible  he  has  faith  to  read, 


26  AT   THE  SATURDAY  CLUB. 

And  every  altar  helps  to  shape  his  creed. 
Ask  you  what  name  this  prisoned  spirit  bears 
While  with  ourselves  this  fleeting  breath  it  shares  ? 
Till  angels  greet  him  with  a  sweeter  one 
In  heaven,  on  earth  we  call  him  EMERSON. 

I  start ;  I  wake  ;  the  vision  is  withdrawn  ; 
Its  figures  fading  like  the  stars  at  dawn ; 
Crossed   from  the   roll   of  life   their    cherished 

names, 

And  memory's  pictures  fading  in  their  frames ; 
Yet  life  is  lovelier  for  these  transient  gleams 
Of  buried  friendships  ;  blest  is  he  who  dreams  ! 


BENJAMIN  PEIRCE: 

ASTRONOMER,    MATHEMATICIAN. 
1809-1880. 

FOR  him  the  Architect  of  all 
Unroofed  our  planet's  starlit  hall ; 
Through  voids  unknown  to  worlds  unseen 
His  clearer  vision  rose  serene. 

With  us  on  earth  he  walked  by  day, 
His  midnight  path  how  far  away ! 
We  knew  him  not  so  well  who  knew 
The  patient  eyes  his  soul  looked  through  ; 

For  who  his  untrod  realm  could  share 
Of  us  that  breathe  this  mortal  air, 
Or  camp  in  that  celestial  tent 
Whose  fringes  gild  our  firmament  ? 

How  vast  the  workroom  where  he  brought 
The  viewless  implements  of  thought ! 
The  wit  how  subtle,  how  profound, 
That  Nature's  tangled  webs  unwound ; 

That  through  the  clouded  matrix  saw 
The  crystal  planes  of  shaping  law, 


28  BENJAMIN  PEIRCE. 

Through  these  the  sovereign  skill  that  planned, 
The  Father's  care,  the  Master's  hand! 

To  him  the  wandering  stars  revealed 
The  secrets  in  their  cradle  sealed  : 
The  far-off,  frozen  sphere  that  swings 
Through  ether,  zoned  with  lucid  rings  ; 

The  orb  that  rolls  in  dim  eclipse 
Wide  wheeling  round  its  long  ellipse,  — 
His  name  Urania  .writes  with  these 
And  stamps  it  on  her  Pleiades. 

We  knew  him  not  ?     Ah,  well  we  knew 
The  manly  soul,  so  brave,  so  true, 
The  cheerful  heart  that  conquered  age, 
The  childlike  silver-bearded  sage. 

No  more  his  tireless  thought  explores 
The  azure  sea  with  golden  shores  ; 
Rest,  wearied  frame  !  the  stars  shall  keep 
A  loving  watch  where  thou  shalt  sleep. 

Farewell !  the  spirit  needs  must  rise, 
So  long  a  tenant  of  the  skies,  — 
Rise  to  that  home  all  worlds  above 
Whose  sun  is  God,  whose  light  is  love. 


OUR  DEAD  SINGER. 

H.    W.    L. 

PRIDE  of  the  sister  realm  so  long  our  own, 

We  claim  with  her  that  spotless  fame  of  thine, 
White  as  her  snow  and  fragrant  as  her  pine ! 
Ours  was  thy  birthplace,  but  in  every  zone 
Some  wreath  of  song  thy  liberal  hand  has  thrown 
Breathes  perfume  from  its  blossoms,  that  en 
twine 
Where'er    the   dewdrops   fall,    the    sunbeams 

shine, 

On  life's  long  path  with  tangled  cares  o'ergrown. 
Can  Art  thy  truthful  counterfeit  command,  — 
The  silver-haloed  features,  tranquil,  mild,  — 
Soften    the    lips    of    bronze    as    when    they 

smiled, 

Give  warmth  and  pressure  to  the  marble  hand  ? 
Seek  the  lost  rainbow  in  the  sky  it  spanned ! 
Farewell,  sweet  Singer  !     Heaven  reclaims  its 
child. 

Carved  from  the  block  or  cast  in  clinging  mould, 
Will  grateful  Memory  fondly  try  her  best 
The  mortal  vesture  from  decay  to  wrest ; 


30  OUR  DEAD  SINGER. 

His  look  shall  greet  us,  calm,  but  ah,  how  cold ! 
No  breath  can  stir  the  brazen  drapery's  fold, 

No  throb  can  heave  the  statue's  stony  breast ; 

"  He  is  not  here,  but  risen,"  will  stand  confest 
In  all  we  miss,  in  all  our  eyes  behold. 
How  Nature  loved  him !     On  his  placid  brow, 

Thought's  ample  dome,  she  set  the  sacred  sign 

That  marks  the  priesthood  of  her  holiest  shrine, 
Nor  asked  a  leaflet  from  the  laurel's  bough 
That  envious  Time  might  clutch  or  disallow, 

To  prove  her  chosen  minstrel's  song  divine. 

On  many  a  saddened  hearth  the  evening  fire 
Burns    paler   as    the    children's    hour   draws 

near,  — 
That    joyous    hour    his    song    made    doubly 

dear,  — 

And  tender  memories  touch  the  faltering  choir. 
He  sings  no  more  on  earth ;  our  vain  desire 
Aches  for  the  voice  we  loved  so  long  to  hear 
In    Dorian     flute-notes    breathing     soft    arid 

clear,  — 

The  sweet  contralto  that  could  never  tire. 
Deafened  with  listening  to  a  harsher  strain, 
The  Maenad's    scream,    the  stark   barbarian's 

CIT> 

Still  for  those  soothing,  loving  tones  we  sigh  ; 
Oh,  for  our  vanished  Orpheus  once  again  ! 
The  shadowy  silence  hears  us  call  in  vain  ! 

His  lips  are  hushed ;  his  song  shall  never  die. 


TO  JAMES   FREEMAN   CLARKE. 

APRIL  4,  1880. 

I  BRING  the  simplest  pledge  of  love, 

Friend  of  my  earlier  days ; 
Mine  is  the  hand  without  the  glove, 

The  heart-beat,  not  the  phrase. 

How  few  still  breathe  this  mortal  air 

We  called  by  schoolboy  names ! 
You  still,  whatever  robe  you  wear, 

To  me  are  always  James  : 

That  name  the  kind  apostle  bore 

Who  shames  the  sullen  creeds, 
Not  trusting  less,  but  loving  more, 

And  showing  faith  by  deeds. 

What  blending  thoughts  our  memories  share  ! 

What  visions  yours  and  mine 
Of  May-days  in  whose  morning  air 

The  dews  were  golden  wine  ; 

Of  vistas  bright  with  opening  day, 

Whose  all-awakening  sun 
Showed  in  life's  landscape,  far  away, 

The  summits  to  be  won ! 


32  TO  JAMES  FREEMAN  CLARKE. 

The  heights  are  gained.  —  Ah,  say  not  so 

For  him  who  smiles  at  time, 
Leaves  his  tired  comrades  down  below, 

And  only  lives  to  climb ! 

His  labors,  —  will  they  ever  cease, 
With  hand,  and  tongue,  and  pen  ? 

Shall  wearied  Nature  ask  release 
At  threescore  years  and  ten  ? 

Our  strength  the  clustered  seasons  tax,  — 
For  him  new  life  they  mean  ; 

Like  rods  around  the  lictor's  axe 
They  keep  him  bright  and  keen. 

The  wise,  the  brave,  the  strong,  we  know, 
We  mark  them  here  or  there ; 

But  he,  —  we  roll  our  eyes,  and  lo  ! 
We  find  him  everywhere  ! 

With  truth's  bold  cohorts,  or  alone, 
He  strides  through  error's  field  ; 

His  lance  is  ever  manhood's  own, 
His  breast  is  woman's  shield. 

Count  not  his  years  while  earth  has  need 
Of  souls  that  Heaven  inflames 

With  sacred  zeal  to  save,  to  lead,  — 
Long  live  our  dear  Saint  James ! 


TWO  POEMS  TO    HARRIET    BEECHER 
STOWE 

ON  HER  SEVENTIETH  BIRTHDAY,  JUNE  14,  1882. 
I.    AT   THE   SUMMIT. 

SISTER,  we  bid  you  welcome,  —  we  who  stand 

On  the  high  table-land  ; 

We  who  have  climbed  life's  slippery  Alpine  slope, 
And  rest,  still  leaning  on  the  staff  of  hope, 
Looking  along  the  silent  Mer  de  Glace, 
Leading  our  footsteps  where  the  dark  crevasse 
Yawns  in  the  frozen  sea  we  all  must  pass,  — 

Sister,  we  clasp  your  hand ! 

Rest  with  us  in  the  hour  that  Heaven  has  lent 

Before  the  swift  descent. 

Look !  the  warm  sunbeams  kiss  the  glittering  ice ; 
See  !  next  the  snow-drift  blooms  the  edelweiss  ; 
The  mated  eagles  fan  the  frosty  air  ; 
Life,  beauty,  love,  around  us  everywhere, 
And,  in  their  time,  the  darkening  hours  that  bear 

Sweet  memories,  peace,  content. 

Thrice  welcome  !  shining  names  our  missals  show 
Amid  their  rubrics'  glow, 


34  TWO-  POEMS   TO  H.  B.   STOWE. 

But  search  the  blazoned  record's  starry  line, 
What  halo's  radiance  fills  the  page  like  thine  ? 
Thou  who  by  some  celestial  clew  couldst  find 
The  way  to  all  the  hearts  of  all  mankind, 
On  thee,  already  canonized,  enshrined, 

What  more  can  Heaven  bestow  ? 


n.  THE  WORLD'S  HOMAGE. 

IF  every  tongue  that  speaks  her  praise 
For  whom  I  shape  my  tinkling  phrase 

Were  summoned  to  the  table, 
The  vocal  chorus  that  would  meet 
Of  mingling  accents  harsh  or  sweet. 
From  every  land  and  tribe,  would  beat 

The  polyglots  at  Babel. 

Briton  and  Frenchman,  Swede  and  Dane, 
Turk,  Spaniard,  Tartar  of  Ukraine, 

Hidalgo,  Cossack,  Cadi, 
High  Dutchman  and  Low  Dutchman,  too, 
The  Russian  serf,  the  Polish  Jew, 
Arab,  Armenian,  and  Mantchoo, 

Would  shout,  "  We  know  the  lady  !  " 

Know  her  !     Who  knows  not  Uncle  Tom 
And  her  he  learned  his  gospel  from 

Has  never  heard  of  Moses ; 
Full  well  the  brave  black  hand  we  know 


TWO  POEMS   TO  H.   B.   STOWE.  35 

That  gave  to  freedom's  grasp  the  hoe 
That  killed  the  weed  that  used  to  grow 
Among  the  Southern  roses. 

When  Archimedes,  long  ago, 

Spoke  out  so  grandly,  "  Dos  pou  sto,  — 

Give  me  a  place  to  stand  on, 
I  '11  move  your  planet  for  you,  now,"  — 
He  little  dreamed  or  fancied  how 
The  sto  at  last  should  find  its  pou 

For  woman's  faith  to  land  on. 

Her  lever  was  the  wand  of  art, 
Her  fulcrum  was  the  human  heart, 

Whence  all  unfailing  aid  is  ; 
She  moved  the  earth  !     Its  thunders  pealed, 
Its  mountains  shook,  its  temples  reeled, 
The  blood-red  fountains  were  unsealed, 

And  Moloch  sunk  to  Hades. 

All  through  the  conflict,  up  and  down 
Marched  Uncle  Tom  and  Old  John  Brown, 

One  ghost,  one  form  ideal ; 
And  which  was  false  and  which  was  true, 
And  which  was  mightier  of  the  two, 
The  wisest  sibyl  never  knew, 

For  both  alike  were  real. 

Sister,  the  holy  maid  does  well 
Who  counts  her  beads  in  convent  cell, 
Where  pale  devotion  lingers  ; 


36  TWO  POEMS  TO  H.  B.   STOWE. 

But  she  who  serves  the  sufferer's  needs, 
Whose  prayers  are  spelt  in  loving  deeds, 
May  trust  the  Lord  will  count  her  beads 
As  well  as  human  fingers. 

When  Truth  herself  was  Slavery's  slave, 
Thy  hand  the  prisoned  suppliant  gave 

The  rainbow  wings  of  fiction. 
And  Truth  who  soared  descends  to-day 
Bearing  an  angel's  wreath  away, 
Its  lilies  at  thy  feet  to  lay 

With  Heaven's  own  benediction. 


A  WELCOME  TO  DR.    BENJAMIN  AP- 
THORP  GOULD. 

ON  HIS   RETURN   FROM   SOUTH   AMERICA, 

AFTER  FIFTEEN   YEARS   DEVOTED  TO   CATALOGUING  THE 
STARS   OF   THE   SOUTHERN   HEMISPHERE.1 

ONCE  more  Orion  and  the  sister  Seven 

Look  on  thee  from  the  skies  that  hailed  thy 

birth,  — 
How  shall  we  welcome  thee,  whose  home  was 

heaven, 
From  thy  celestial  wanderings  back  to  earth  ? 

Science  has  kept  her  midnight  taper  burning 
To  greet  thy  coming  with  its  vestal  flame ; 
Friendship  has  murmured,  "  When  art  thou  re 
turning  ?  " 

"  Not  yet !     Not  yet !  "  the  answering  message 
came. 

Thine  was  unstinted  zeal,  unchilled  devotion, 
While  the  blue  realm   had  kingdoms  to  ex 
plore,  — 

1  Read  at  the  Dinner  given  at  the  Hotel  Vendome,  May 
6,  1885. 


38  WELCOME  TO  DR.  B.  A.   GOULD. 

Patience,  like  his  who  ploughed  the  unfurrowed 

ocean, 
Till  o'er  its  margin  loomed  San  Salvador. 

Through  the  long  nights  I  see  thee  ever  waking, 
Thy  footstool  earth,  thy  roof  the  hemisphere, 

While  with  thy  griefs  our  weaker  hearts  are  ach 
ing, 
Firm  as  thine  equatorial's  rock-based  pier. 

The  souls  that  voyaged  the  azure  depths  before 
thee 

Watch  with  thy  tireless  vigils,  all  unseen,  — 
Tycho  and  Kepler  bend  benignant  o'er  thee, 

And  with  his  toy-like  tube  the  Florentine,  — 

He  at  whose  word  the  orb  that  bore  him  shivered 
To  find  her  central  sovereignty  disowned, 

While  the  wan  lips  of  priest  and  pontiff  quivered, 
Their  jargon  stilled,  their  Baal  disenthroned. 

Flamsteed    and   Newton   look   with  brows   un 
clouded, 

Their  strife  forgotten  with  its  faded  scars,  — 
(Titans,  who  found  the  world  of  space  too  crowded 

To  walk  in  peace  among  its  myriad  stars.) 

All  cluster  round  thee,  —  seers  of  earliest  ages, 
Persians,  lonians,  Mizraim's  learned  kings, 

From  the  dim  days  of  Shinar's  hoary  sages 
To  his  who  weighed  the  planet's  fluid  rings. 


WELCOME   TO  DR.   B.   A.   GOULD.          39 

And   we,    for  whom   the   northern   heavens   are 

lighted, 
For  whom  the  storm  has  passed,  the  sun  has 

smiled, 

Our  clouds  all  scattered,  all  our  stars  united, 
We  claim  thee,    clasp  thee,  like   a   long-lost 
child. 

Fresh  from  the  spangled  vault's  o'erarching  splen 
dor, 

Thy  lonely  pillar,  thy  revolving  dome, 
In  heartfelt  accents,  proud,  rejoicing,  tender, 

We  bid  thee  welcome  to  thine  earthly  home  ! 


TO  FREDERICK  HENRY  HEDGE. 

AT     A    DINNER     GIVEN     HIM    ON   HIS   EIGHTIETH 
BIRTHDAY,  DECEMBER    12,    1885. 

With  a  bronze  statuette  of  John  of  Bologna's  Mercury,  pre 
sented  by  a  few  friends. 

FIT  emblem  for  the  altar's  side, 
And  him  who  serves  its  daily  need, 

The  stay,  the  solace,  and  the  guide 
Of  mortal  men,  whate'er  his  creed  ! 

Flamen  or  Auspex,  Priest  or  Bonze, 
He  feeds  the  upward-climbing  fire, 

Still  teaching,  like  the  deathless  bronze, 
Man's  noblest  lesson,  — to  aspire. 

Hermes  lies  prone  by  fallen  Jove, 

Crushed  are  the  wheels  of  Krishna's  car, 

And  o'er  Dodona's  silent  grove 

Streams  the  white  ray  from  Bethlehem's  star. 

Yet  snatched  from  Time's  relentless  clutch, 
A  godlike  shape,  that  human  hands 

Have  fired  with  Art's  electric  touch, 
The  herald  of  Olympus  stands. 


TO  FREDERICK  HENRY  HEDGE.  41 

Ask  not  what  ore  the  furnace  knew ; 

Love  mingled  with  the  flowing  mass, 
And  lends  its  own  unchanging  hue, 

Like  gold  in  Corinth's  molten  brass. 

Take  then  our  gift ;  this  airy  form 
Whose  bronze  our  benedictions  gild, 

The  hearts  of  all  its  givers  warm 

With  love  by  freezing  years  unchilled. 

With  eye  undimmed,  with  strength  unworn, 
Still  toiling  in  your  Master's  field, 

Before  you  wave  the  growths  unshorn, 
Their  ripened  harvest  yet  to  yield. 

True  servant  of  the  Heavenly  Sire, 

To  you  our  tried  affection  clings, 
Bids  you  still  labor,  still  aspire, 

But  clasps  your  feet  and  steals  their  wings. 


TO  JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

THIS   is   your   month,   the    month   of   "perfect 

days," 

Birds  in  full  song  and  blossoms  all  ablaze. 
Nature  herself  your  earliest  welcome  breathes, 
Spreads  every  leaflet,  every  bower  inwreathes  ; 
Carpets  her  paths  for  your  returning  feet, 
Puts  forth  her  best  your  coming  steps  to  greet ; 
And  Heaven  must  surely  find  the  earth  in  tune 
When  Home,  sweet  Home,  exhales  the  breath  of 

June. 

These  blessed  days  are  waning  all  too  fast, 
And  June's  bright  visions  mingling  with  the  past ; 
Lilacs  have  bloomed  and  faded,  and  the  rose 
Has  dropped  its  petals,  but  the  clover  blows, 
And  fills  its  slender  tubes  with  honeyed  sweets  ; 
The  fields  are  pearled  with  milk-white  margarites  ; 
The  dandelion,  which  you  sang  of  old, 
Has  lost  its  pride  of  place,  its  crown  of  gold, 
But  still  displays  its  feathery-mantled  globe, 
Which  children's  breath,  or  wandering  winds  un 
robe. 
These  were  your  humble  friends ;  your  opened 

eyes 
Nature  had  trained  her  common  gifts  to  prize  ; 


TO  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL.  43 

Not  Cam  nor  Isis  taught  you  to  despise 
Charles,  with  his  muddy  margin  and  the  harsh, 
Plebeian  grasses  of  the  reeking  marsh. 
New  England's  home-bred  scholar,  well  you  knew 
Her   soil,  her   speech,  her  people,  through  and 

through, 

And  loved  them  ever  with  the  love  that  holds 
All  sweet,  fond  memories  in  its  fragrant  folds. 
Though  far  and  wide  your  winged  words  have 

flown, 

Your  daily  presence  kept  you  all  our  own, 
Till,  with  a  sorrowing  sigh,  a  thrill  of  pride, 
We  heard  your  summons,  and  you  left  our  side 
For  larger  duties  and  for  tasks  untried. 

How  pleased  the  Spaniards  for  a  while  to  claim 
This  frank  Hidalgo  with  the  liquid  name, 
Who  stored  their  classics  on  his  crowded  shelves 
And  loved  their  Calderon  as  they  did  themselves  ! 
Before  his  eyes  what  changing  pageants  pass  ! 
The  bridal  feast  how  near  the  funeral  mass  ! 
The  death-stroke  falls,  —  the  Misereres  wail ; 
The  joy-bells  ring,  —  the  tear-stained   cheeks  un 
veil, 

While,  as  the  playwright  shifts  his  pictured  scene, 
The  royal  mourner  crowns  his  second  queen. 

From  Spain  to  Britain  is  a  goodly  stride,  — 
Madrid  and   London  long-stretched  leagues  di 
vide. 


44  TO  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 

What  if  I  send  him,  "  Uncle  S.,  says  he," 
To  my  good  cousin  whom  he  calls  "  J.  B."  ? 
A  nation's  servants  go  where  they  are  sent,  — 
He  heard  his  Uncle's  orders,  and  he  went. 

By  what  enchantments,  what  alluring  arts, 
Our  truthful  James  led  captive  British  hearts,  — 
Whether  his  shrewdness  made  their  statesmen 

halt, 

Or  if  his  learning  found  their  Dons  at  fault, 
Or  if  his  virtue  was  a  strange  surprise, 
Or  if  his  wit  flung  star-dust  in  their  eyes,  — 
Like  honest  Yankees  we  can  simply  guess ; 
But  that  he  did  it  all  must  needs  confess. 
England  herself  without  a  blush  may  claim 
Her  only  conqueror  since  the  Norman  came. 

Eight  years  an  exile  !     What  a  weary  while 
Since  first  our  herald  sought  the  mother  isle  ! 
His    snow-white    flag    no    churlish  wrong    has 

soiled,  — 
He  left  unchallenged,  he  returns  unspoiled. 

Here  let  us  keep  him,  here  he  saw  the  light,  — 
His  genius,  wisdom,  wit,  are  ours  by  right ; 
And  if  we  lose  him  our  lament  will  be 
We  have  "  five  hundred  "  —  not  "  as  good  as  he." 


TO  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 

ON   HIS   EIGHTIETH    BIRTHDAY. 

1887. 

FRIEND,  whom  thy  fourscore  winters  leave  more 

dear 

Than  when  life's  roseate  summer  on  thy  cheek 
Burned  in  the  flush  of  manhood's  manliest  year, 
Lonely,  how  lonely !  is  the  snowy  peak 
Thy  feet  have  reached,  and  mine  have  climbed 

so  near ! 

Close  on  thy  footsteps  'mid  the  landscape  drear 
I  stretch  my  hand  thine  answering  grasp  to  seek, 
Warm  with   the   love  no  rippling   rhymes   can 

speak ! 

Look  backwards  !     From  thy  lofty  height  survey 
Thy  years  of  toil,  of  peaceful  victories  won, 
Of  dreams  made  real,  largest  hopes  outrun  ! 
Look  forward  !     Brighter  than  earth's  morning 

ray 

Streams  the  pure  light  of  Heaven's  unsetting  sun, 
The  unclouded  dawn  of  life's  immortal  day ! 


PRELUDE  TO  A  VOLUME  PRINTED  IN 
RAISED  LETTERS  FOR  THE  BLIND. 

DEAR  friends,  left  darkling  in  the  long  eclipse 
That  veils  the  noonday,  —  you  whose  finger-tips 
A  meaning  in  these  ridgy  leaves  can  find 
Where  ours  go  stumbling,  senseless,  helpless,  blind, 
This  wreath  of  verse  how  dare  I  offer  you 
To  whom  the  garden's  choicest  gifts  are  due  ? 
The  hues  of  all  its  glowing  beds  are  ours,  — 
Shall  you  not  claim  its  sweetest-smelling  flowers  ? 

Nay,  those  I  have  I  bring  you,  —  at  their  birth 
Life's   cheerful   sunshine   warmed    the   grateful 

earth ; 

If  my  rash  boyhood  dropped  some  idle  seeds, 
And  here  and  there  you  light  on  saucy  weeds 
Among  the  fairer  growths,  remember  still 
Song  comes  of  grace,  and  not  of  human  will : 
We  get  a  jarring  note  when  most  we  try, 
Then  strike  the  chord  we  know  not  how  or  why ; 
Our  stately  verse  with  too  aspiring  art 
Oft  overshoots  and  fails  to  reach  the  heart, 
While  the  rude  rhyme  one  human  throb  endears 
Turns  grief  to  smiles,  and  softens  mirth  to  tears. 


TO  A   VOLUME  FOR   THE  BLIND.         47 

Kindest  of  critics,  ye  whose  fingers  read, 
From  Nature's  lesson  learn  the  poet's  creed  j 
The  queenly  tulip  flaunts  in  robes  of  flame, 
The  wayside  seedling  scarce  a  tint  may  claim, 
Yet  may  the  lowliest  leaflets  that  unfold 
A  dewdrop   fresh  from    heaven's  own  chalice 
hold. 


BOSTON  TO  FLORENCE. 


ENCE  FOR  ITS  MEETING  IN  COMMEMORATION 
OF  DANTE,  JANUARY  27,  1881,  ANNIVERSARY 
OF  HIS  FIRST  CONDEMNATION. 

PROUD  of  her  clustering  spires,   her  new-built 
towers, 

Our  Venice,  stolen  from  the  slumbering  sea, 

A  sister's  kindliest  greeting  wafts  to  thee, 
Rose  of  Val  d'Arno,  Queen  of  all  its  flowers ! 
Thine  exile's  shrine  thy  sorrowing  love  embowers, 

Yet  none  with  truer  homage  bends  the  knee, 

Or  stronger  pledge  of  fealty  brings,  than  we, 
Whose  poets  make  thy  dead  Immortal  ours. 
Lonely  the  height,  but  ah,  to  heaven  how  near ! 

Dante,  whence   flowed  that  solemn   verse   of 
thine 

Like  the  stern  river  from  its  Apennine 
Whose  name   the  far-off  Scythian  thrilled  with 

fear: 
Now  to  all  lands  thy  deep-toned  voice  is  dear, 

And  every  language  knows  the  Song  Divine ! 


AT  THE  UNITARIAN  FESTIVAL. 

MARCH  8,  1882. 

THE  waves  unbuild  the  wasting  shore  ; 

Where  mountains  towered  the  billows  sweep, 
Yet  still  their  borrowed  spoils  restore, 

And  build  new  empires  from  the  deep. 
So  while  the  floods  of  thought  lay  waste 

The  proud  domain  of  priestly  creeds, 
Its  heaven-appointed  tides  will  haste 

To  plant  new  homes  for  human  needs. 
Be  ours  to  mark  with  hearts  unchilled 

The  change  an  outworn  church  deplores  ; 
The  legend  sinks,  but  Faith  shall  build 

A  fairer  throne  on  new-found  shores. 


POEM 

FOR  THE  TWO  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTIETH  ANNI 
VERSARY  OF  THE  FOUNDING  OF  HARVARD 
COLLEGE. 

TWICE  had  the  mellowing  sun  of  autumn  crowned 
The  hundredth  circle  of  his  yearly  round, 
When,  as  we  meet  to-day,  our  fathers  met : 
That  joyous  gathering  who  can  e'er  forget, 
When    Harvard's    nurslings,  scattered    far    and 

wide, 
Through  mart  and   village,   lake's   and    ocean's 

side, 

Came,  with  one  impulse,  one  fraternal  throng, 
And  crowned  the   hours  with   banquet,   speech, 

and  song? 

Once  more  revived  in  fancy's  magic  glass, 
I  see  in  state  the  long  procession  pass : 
Tall,  courtly,  leader  as  by  right  divine, 
Winthrop,    our  Winthrop,  rules   the  marshalled 

line, 

Still  seen  in  front,  as  on  that  far-off  day 
His  ribboned  baton  showed  the  column's  way. 
Not  all  are  gone  who  marched  in  manly  pride 
And  waved   their   truncheons   at   their   leader's 

side  ; 


POEM.  51 

Gray,  Lowell,  Dixwell,  who  his  empire  shared, 
These  to  be  with  us  envious  Time  has  spared. 

Few  are  the  faces,  so  familiar  then, 
Our  eyes  still  meet  amid  the  haunts  of  men  ; 
Scarce  one  of  all  the  living  gathered  there, 
Whose  unthinned  locks  betrayed  a  silver  hair, 
Greets  us  to-day,  and  yet  we  seem  the  same 
As  our  own  sires  and  grandsires,  save  in  name. 

There  are  the  patriarchs,  looking  vaguely  round 
For  classmates'  faces,  hardly  known  if  found  ; 
See  the  cold  brow  that  rules  the  busy  mart ; 
Close  at  its  side  the  pallid  son  of  art, 
Whose  purchased   skill  with  borrowed  meaning 

clothes, 

And  stolen  hues,  the  smirking  face  he  loathes. 
Here  is  the  patient  scholar ;  in  his  looks 
You  read  the  titles  of  his  learned  books ; 
What  classic  lore  those  spidery  crow's-feet  speak ! 
What  problems  figure  on  that  wrinkled  cheek ! 
For  never  thought  but  left  its  stiffened  trace, 
Its  fossil  footprint,  on  the  plastic  face, 
As  the  swift  record  of  a  raindrop  stands, 
Fixed  on  the  tablet  of  the  hardening  sands. 
On  every  face  as  on  the  written  page 
Each  year  renews  the  autograph  of  age  ; 
One  trait  alone  may  wasting  years  defy,  — 
The  fire  still  lingering  in  the  poet's  eye, 
,  While  Hope,  the  siren,  sings  her  sweetest  strain,  — • 
Non  omnis  mortar  is  its  proud  refrain. 


52  POEM. 

Sadly  we  gaze  upon  the  vacant  chair  ; 
He  who  should  claim  its  honors  is  not  there,  — 
Otis,  whose  lips  the  listening  crowd  enthrall 
That  press  and  pack  the  floor  of  Boston's  hall. 
But  Kirkland  smiles,  released  from  toil  and  care 
Since  the  silk  mantle  younger  shoulders  wear,  — 
Quincy's,  whose  spirit  breathes  the  selfsame  fire 
That  filled  the  bosom  of  his  youthful  sire, 
Who  for  the  altar  bore  the  kindled  torch 
To  freedom's  temple,  dying  in  its  porch. 

Three  grave  professions  in  their  sons  appear, 
Whose  words  well  studied  all  well  pleased  will 

hear  : 

Palfrey,  ordained  in  varied  walks  to  shine, 
Statesman,  historian,  critic,  and  divine  ; 
Solid  and  square  behold  majestic  Shaw, 
A  mass  of  wisdom  and  a  mine  of  law  ; 
Warren,  whose  arm  the  doughtiest  warriors  fear, 
Asks  of  the  startled  crowd  to  lend  its  ear,  — 
Proud  of  his  calling,  him  the  world  loves  best, 
Not  as  the  coming,  but  the  parting  guest. 

Look  on  that  form,  —  with  eye  dilating  scan 
The  stately  mould  of  nature's  kingliest  man  ! 
Tower-like  he  stands  in  life's  unfaded  prime  ; 
Ask  you  his  name  ?     None  asks  a  second  time  ! 
He  from  the  land  his  outward  semblance  takes, 
Where  storm-swept  mountains  watch  o'er  slum 
bering  lakes. 
See  in  the  impress  which  the  body  wears 


POEM.  53 

How  its  imperial  might  the  soul  declares  : 
The  forehead's  large  expansion,  lofty,  wide, 
That  locks  unsilvered  vainly  strive  to  hide  ; 
The    lines  of    thought   that    plough   the    sober 

cheek ; 

Lips  that  betray  their  wisdom  ere  they  speak 
In  tones  like  answers  from  Dodona's  grove  ; 
An  eye  like  Juno's  when  she  frowns  on  Jove. 
I  look  and  wonder ;  will  he  be  content  — 
This  man,  this  monarch,  for  the  purple  meant  — 
The  meaner  duties  of  his  tribe  to  share, 
Clad  in  the  garb  that  common  mortals  wear  ? 
Ah,  wild  Ambition,  spread  thy  restless  wings, 
Beneath  whose  plumes  the  hidden  oestrum  stings ; 
Thou  whose  bold  flight  would  leave  earth's  vul 
gar  crowds, 

And  like  the  eagle  soar  above  the  clouds, 
Must  feel  the  pang  that  fallen  angels  know 
When  the  red  lightning  strikes  thee  from  below ! 

Less  bronze,  more  silver,  mingles  in  the  mould 
Of  him  whom  next  my  roving  eyes  behold ; 
His,  more  the  scholar's  than  the  statesman's  face, 
Proclaims  him  born  of  academic  race. 
Weary  his  look,  as  if  an  aching  brain 
Left  on  his  brow  the  frozen  prints  of  pain ; 
His  voice  far-reaching,  grave,  sonorous,  owns 
A  shade  of  sadness  in  its  plaintive  tones, 
Yet  when   its  breath  some  loftier  thought   in 
spires 


54  POEM. 

Glows  with  a  heat  that  every  bosom  fires. 

Such  Everett  seems  ;  no  chance-sown  wild  flower 

knows 

The  full-blown  charms  of  culture's  double  rose,  — 
Alas,  how  soon,  by  death's  unsparing  frost, 
Its  bloom  is  faded  and  its  fragrance  lost ! 

Two  voices,  only  two,  to  earth  belong, 
Of  all  whose  accents  met  the  listening  throng : 
Winthrop,  alike  for  speech  and  guidance  framed, 
On  that  proud  day  a  twofold  duty  claimed  ; 
One  other  yet,  —  remembered  or  forgot,  — 
Forgive  my  silence  if  I  name  him  not. 
Can  I  believe  it  ?     I,  whose  youthful  voice 
Claimed    a     brief     gamut,  —  notes     not    over* 

choice,  — 

Stood  undismayed  before  the  solemn  throng, 
And  propria  voce  sung  that  saucy  song 
Which  even  in  memory  turns  my  soul  aghast,  — 
Felix  audacia  was  the  verdict  cast. 

What  were  the  glory  of  these  festal  days 
Shorn  of  their  grand  illumination's  blaze  ? 
Night  comes  at  last  with  all  her  starry  train 
To  find  a  light  in  every  glittering  pane. 
From    "  Harvard's "   windows   see   the    sudden 

flash,  — 

Old  "  Massachusetts  "  glares  through  every  sash ; 
From  wall  to  wall  the  kindling  splendors  run 
Till  all  is  glorious  as  the  noonday  sun. 


POEM.  55 

How  to  the  scholar's  mind  each  object  brings 
What  some  historian  tells,  some  poet  sings ! 
The  good  gray  teacher  whom  we  all  revered  — 
Loved,  honored,  laughed  at,  and   by   freshman 

feared, 

As  from  old  "  Harvard,"  where  its  light  began, 
From  hall  to  hall  the  clustering  splendors  ran  — 
Took  down  his  well-worn  ^Eschylus  and  read, 
Lit  by  the  rays  a  thousand  tapers  shed, 
How  the   swift   herald   crossed  the  leagues   be 
tween 

Mycenae's  monarch  and  his  faithless  queen ; 
And  thus  he  read,  —  my  verse  but  ill  displays 
The  Attic  picture,  clad  in  modern  phrase : 

On  Ida's  summit  flames  the  kindling  pile, 
And  Lemnos  answers  from  his  rocky  isle  ; 
From  Athos  next  it  climbs  the  reddening  skies, 
Thence  where  the  watch-towers  of  Macistus  rise. 
The  sentries  of  Mesapius  in  their  turn 
Bid  the  dry  heath  in  high-piled  masses  burn, 
Cithceron's  crag  the  crimson  billows  stain, 
Far  JEgiplanctus  joins  the  fiery  train. 
Thus  the  swift  courier  through  the  pathless  night 
Has  gained  at  length  the  Arachncean  height, 
Whence  the  glad  tidings,  borne  on  wings  offlame9 
"  Ilium  has  fallen!  "  reach  the  royal  dame. 

So  ends  the  day ;  before  the  midnight  stroke 
The  lights  expiring  cloud  the  air  with  smoke ; 


56  POEM. 

While  these  the  toil  of  younger  hands  employ, 
The  slumbering  Grecian  dreams  of  smouldering 
Troy. 

As  to  that  hour  with  backward  steps  I  turn, 
Midway  I  pause  ;  behold  a  funeral  urn ! 
Ah,  sad  memorial !  known  but  all  too  well 
The  tale  which  thus  its  golden  letters  tell : 

This  dust,  once  breathing,  changed  its  joyous  life 
For  toil  and  hunger,  wounds  and  mortal  strife  ; 
Love,  friendship,  learning's  all-prevailing 

charms, 

For  the  cold  bivouac  and  the  clash  of  arms. 
The  cause  of  freedom  won,  a  race  enslaved 
Called  back  to  manhood,  and  a  nation  saved, 
These  sons  of  Harvard,  falling  ere  their  prime, 
Leave  their  proud  memory  to  the  coming  time. 

While  in  their  still  retreats  our  scholars  turn 
The  mildewed  pages  of  the  past,  to  learn 
With  endless  labor  of  the  sleepless  brain 
What  once  has  been  and  ne'er  shall  be  again, 
We  reap  the  harvest  of  their  ceaseless  toil 
And  find  a  fragrance  in  their  midnight  oil. 
But  let  a  purblind  mortal  dare  the  task 
The  embryo  future  of  itself  to  ask, 
The  world  reminds  him,  with  a  scornful  laugh, 
That  times  have  changed  since  Prospero  broke 
his  staff. 


POEM.  57 

Could  all  the  wisdom  of  the  schools  foretell 
The  dismal  hour  when  Lisbon  shook  and  fell, 
Or  name  the  shuddering  night  that  toppled  down 
Our  sister's  pride,  beneath  whose  mural  crown 
Scarce  had  the  scowl  forgot  its  angry  lines, 
When   earth's  blind   prisoners  fired  their  fatal 

mines  ? 
New   realms,    new    worlds,   exulting    Science 

claims, 

Still  the  dim  future  unexplored  remains ; 
Her  trembling  scales  the  far-off  planet  weigh, 
Her  torturing  prisms  its  elements  betray,  — 
We  know  what  ores  the  fires  of  Sirius  melt, 
What  vaporous  metals  gild  Orion's  belt ; 
Angels,  archangels,  may  have  yet  to  learn 
Those  hidden  truths  our  heaven-taught  eyes  dis 
cern  ; 

Yet  vain  is  Knowledge,  with  her  mystic  wand, 
To  pierce  the  cloudy  screen  and  read  beyond ; 
Once  to  the  silent  stars  the  fates  were  known, 
To  us  they  tell  no  secrets  but  their  own. 

At  Israel's  altar  still  we  humbly  bow, 
But  where,  oh  where,  are  Israel's  prophets  now  ? 
Where  is  the  sibyl  with  her  hoarded  leaves  ? 
Where    is    the    charm    the    weird    enchantress 

weaves  ? 

No  croaking  raven  turns  the  auspex  pale, 
No  reeking  altars  tell  the  morrow's  tale  ; 
The  measured  footsteps  of  the  Fates  are  dumb, 


58  POEM. 

Unseen,  unheard,  unheralded,  they  come, 
Prophet  and  priest  and  all  their  following  fail. 
Who  then  is  left  to  rend  the  future's  veil  ? 
Who  but  the  poet,  he  whose  nicer  sense 
No  film  can  baffle  with  its  slight  defence, 
Whose  finer  vision  marks  the  waves  that  stray, 
Felt,  but  unseen,  beyond  the  violet  ray  ?  — 
Who,  while   the  storm-wind  waits  its  darkening 

shroud, 

Foretells  the  tempest  ere  he  sees  the  cloud,  — 
Stays  not  for  time  his  secrets  to  reveal, 
But  reads  his  message  ere  he  breaks  the  seal. 
So  Mantua's  bard  foretold  the  coining  day 
Ere  Bethlehem's  infant  in  the  manger  lay ; 
The  promise  trusted  to  a  mortal  tongue 
Found  listening  ears  before  the  angels  sung. 
So  while  his  load  the  creeping  pack-horse  galled, 
While  inch  by  inch  the  dull  canal-boat  crawled, 
Darwin  beheld  a  Titan  form  "  afar 
Drag  the  slow  barge  or  drive  the  rapid  car," 
That  panting  giant  fed  by  air  and  flame, 
The  mightiest  forges  task  their  strength  to  tame. 

Happy  the  poet !  him  no  tyrant  fact 
Holds  in  its  clutches  to  be  chained  and  racked  ; 
Him  shall  no  mouldy  document  convict, 
No  stern  statistics  gravely  contradict ; 
No  rival  sceptre  threats  his  airy  throne  ; 
He  rules  o'er  shadows,  but  he  reigns  alone. 


POEM.  59 

Shall  I  the  poet's  broad  dominion  claim 
Because  you  bid  me  wear  his  sacred  name 
For  these  few  moments  ?     Shall  I  boldly  clash 
My  flint  and  steel,  and  by  the  sudden  flash 
Read  the  fair  vision  which  my  soul  descries 
Through  the  wide  pupils  of  its  wondering  eyes  ? 
List  then  awhile ;  the  fifty  years  have  sped  ; 
The  third  full  century's  opened  scroll  is  spread, 
Blank  to  all  eyes  save  his  who  dimly  sees 
The  shadowy  future  told  in  words  like  these  : 

How  strange  the  prospect  to  my  sight  appears, 
Changed  by  the  busy  hands  of  fifty  years  ! 
Full  well  I  know  our  ocean-salted  Charles, 
Filling   and   emptying   through   the    sands   and 

marls 

That  wall  his  restless  stream  on  either  bank, 
Not  all  unlovely  when  the  sedges  rank 
Lend  their  coarse  veil  the  sable  ooze  to  hide 
That  bares  its  blackness  with  the  ebbing  tide. 
In  other  shapes  to  my  illumined  eyes 
Those  ragged  margins  of  our  stream  arise  : 
Through   walls   of    stone    the  sparkling    waters 

flow, 

In  clearer  depths  the  golden  sunsets  glow, 
On  purer  waves  the  lamps  of  midnight  gleam, 
That  silver  o'er  the  unpolluted  stream. 
Along  his  shores  what  stately  temples  rise, 
What  spires,  what  turrets,   print  the  shadowed 

skies ! 


60  POEM. 

Our  smiling  Mother  sees  her  broad  domain 
Spread  its  tall  roofs  along  the  western  plain  ; 
Those  blazoned  windows'  blushing  glories  tell 
Of  grateful  hearts  that  loved  her  long  and  well ; 
Yon  gilded  dome  that  glitters  in  the  sun 
Was  Dives'  gift,  —  alas,  his  only  one  ! 
These  buttressed  walls  enshrine  a  banker's  name, 
That  hallowed  chapel  hides  a  miser's  shame ; 
Their  wealth  they  left,  —  their  memory  cannot 

fade 

Though  age  shall  crumble  every  stone  they  laid. 
Great  lord  of  millions,  —  let  me  call  thee  great, 
Since  countless  servants  at  thy  bidding  wait,  — 
Richesse  oblige :  no  mortal  must  be  blind 
To  all  but  self,  or  look  at  human  kind 
Laboring    and    suffering,  —  all    its    want    and 

woe,  — 

Through  sheets  of  crystal,  as  a  pleasing  show 
That  makes  life  happier  for  the  chosen  few 
Duty  for  whom  is  something  not  to  do. 

When  thy  last  page  of  life  at  length  is  filled, 
What  shall  thine  heirs  to  keep  thy  memory  build  ? 
Will  piles  of  stone  in  Auburn's  mournful  shade 
Save  from  neglect  the  spot  where  thou  art  laid  ? 
Nay,  deem  not  thus  ;    the  sauntering  stranger's 

eye 

Will  pass  unmoved  thy  columned  tombstone  by, 
No  memory  wakened,  not  a  teardrop  shed, 
Thy  name  uncared  for  and  thy  date  unread. 
But  if  thy  record  thou  indeed  dost  prize, 


POEM.  61 

Bid  from  the  soil  some  stately  temple  rise,  — 
Some  hall  of  learning,  some  memorial  shrine, 
With  names  long  honored  to  associate  thine  : 
So  shalt  thy  fame  outlive  thy  shattered  bust 
When  all  around  thee  slumber  in  the  dust. 
Thus  England's  Henry  lives  in  Eton's  towers, 
Saved  from  the  spoil  oblivion's  gulf  devours ; 
Our  later  records  with  as  fair  a  fame 
Have   wreathed   each    uncrowned     benefactor's 

name  ; 

The  walls  they  reared  the  memories  still  retain 
That  churchyard  marbles  try  to  keep  in  vain. 
In  vain  the  delving  antiquary  tries 
To  find  the  tomb  where  generous  Harvard  lies : 
Here,  here,  his  lasting  monument  is  found, 
Where  every  spot  is  consecrated  ground  ! 
O'er  Stoughton's  dust  the  crumbling  stone  de 
cays,  — 

Fast  fade  its  lines  of  lapidary  praise  ; 
There  the  wild  bramble  weaves  its  ragged  nets, 
There  the  dry  lichen  spreads  its  gray  rosettes  ; 
Still  in  yon  walls  his  memory  lives  unspent, 
Nor  asks  a  braver,  nobler  monument. 
Thus  Hollis  lives,  and  Holden,  honored,  praised, 
And  good  Sir  Matthew,  in  the  halls  they  raised ; 
Thus  live  the  worthies  of  these  later  times, 
Who  shine  in  deeds,  less  brilliant,  grouped  in 

rhymes. 

Say,  shall  the  Muse  with  faltering  steps  retreat, 
Or  dare  these  names  in  rhythmic  form  repeat  ? 


62  POEM. 

Why  not  as  boldly  as  from  Homer's  lips 

The  long  array  of  Argive  battle-ships  ? 

When  o'er  our   graves  a  thousand   years  have 

past 

(If  to  such  date  our  threatened  globe  shall  last) 
These  classic  precincts,  myriad  feet  have  pressed, 
Will  show  on  high,  in  beauteous  garlands  dressed, 
Those  honored  names  that  grace  our  later  day,  — 
Weld,  Matthews,  Sever,  Thayer,  Austin,  Gray, 
Sears,  Phillips,  Lawrence,  Hemenway,  —  to  the 

list 
Add  Sanders,  Sibley,  —  all  the  Muse  has  missed. 

Once  more  I  turn  to  read  the  pictured  page 
Bright  with  the  promise  of  the  coming  age. 
Ye  unborn  sons  of  children  yet  unborn, 
Whose   youthful   eyes   shall   greet    that   far-off 

morn, 

Blest  are  those  eyes  that  all  undimmed  behold 
The  sights  so  longed  for  by  the  wise  of  old. 

From  high-arched  alcoves,  through  resounding 

halls, 

Clad  in  full  robes  majestic  Science  calls, 
Tireless,  unsleeping,  still  at  Nature's  feet, 
Whate'er  she  utters  fearless  to  repeat, 
Her  lips  at  last  from  every  cramp  released 
That  Israel's  prophet  caught  from  Egypt's  priest. 

I  see  the  statesman,  firm,  sagacious,  bold, 
For  life's  long  conflict  cast  in  amplest  mould  : 
Not  his  to  clamor  with  the  senseless  throng 


POEM.  63 

That  shouts  nnshamed,  "  Our  party,  right  or 
wrong," 

But  in  the  patriot's  never-ending  fight 

To  side  with  Truth,  who  changes  wrong  to  right. 
I  see  the  scholar ;  in  that  wondrous  time 

Men,  women,  children,  all  can  write  in  rhyme. 

These  four  brief  lines  addressed  to  youth  in 
clined 

To  idle  rhyming  in  his  notes  I  find  : 

Who  writes  in  verse  that  should  have  writ  in 

prose 

Is  like  a  traveller  walking  on  his  toes  ; 
Happy  the  rhymester  who  in  time  has  found 
The   heels   he  lifts  were  made    to    touch    the 

ground. 

I  see  gray  teachers,  —  on  their  work  intent, 
Their  lavished  lives,  in  endless  labor  spent, 
Had  closed  at  last  in  age  and  penury  wrecked, 
Martyrs,  not  burned,  but  frozen  in  neglect, 
Save  for  the  generous  hands  that  stretched  in 

aid 

Of  worn-out  servants  left  to  die  half  paid. 
Ah,  many  a  year  will  pass,  I  thought,  ere  we 
Such  kindly  forethought  shall  rejoice  to  see, — 
Monarchs  are  mindful  of  the  sacred  debt 
That  cold  republics  hasten  to  forget. 

I  see  the  priest,  —  if  such  a  name  he  bears 
Who  without  pride  his  sacred  vestment  wears  ; 


64  POEM. 

And  while  the  symbols  of  his  tribe  I  seek 
Thus  my  first  impulse  bids  me  think  and  speak : 

Let  not  the  mitre  England's  prelate  wears 
Next  to  the  crown  whose  regal  pomp  it  shares, 
Though  low  before  it  courtly  Christians  bow, 
Leave  its  red  mark  on  Younger  England's  brow. 
We  love,  we  honor,  the  maternal  dame, 
But  let  her  priesthood  wear  a  modest  name, 
While  through  the  waters  of  the  Pilgrim's  bay 
A  new-born  Mayflower  shows  her  keels  the  way. 
Too  old  grew  Britain  for  her  mother's  beads,  — 
Must  we  be  necklaced  with  her  children's  creeds  ? 
Welcome  alike  in  surplice  or  in  gown 
The  loyal  lieges  of  the  -Heavenly  Crown  ! 
We  greet  with  cheerful,  not  submissive,  mien 
A  sister  church,  but  not  a  mitred  Queen ! 

A  few  brief  flutters,  and  the  unwilling  Muse, 
Who  feared  the  flight  she  hated  to  refuse, 
Shall  fold   the  wings  whose  gayer  plumes  are 

shed, 
Here   where   at   first   her    half-fledged    pinions 

spread. 

Well  I  remember  in  the  long  ago 
How  in  the  forest  shades  of  Fontainebleau, 
Strained  through  a  fissure  in  a  rocky  cell, 
One  crystal  drop  with  measured  cadence  fell. 
Still,  as  of  old,  forever  bright  and  clear, 
The  fissured  cavern  drops  its  wonted  tear, 


POEM.  65 

And  wondrous  virtue,  simple  folk  aver, 
Lies  in  that  teardrop  of  la  roche  qui  pleure. 

Of  old  I  wandered  by  the  river's  side 
Between  whose  banks  the  mighty  waters  glide, 
Where  vast  Niagara,  hurrying  to  its  fall, 
Builds  and  unbuilds  its  ever-tumbling  wall ; 
Oft  in  my  dreams  I  hear  the  rush  and  roar 
Of  battling  floods,  and  feel  the  trembling  shore, 
As  the  huge  torrent,  girded  for  its  leap, 
With  bellowing  thunders  plunges  down  the  steep. 

Not  less  distinct,  from  memory's  pictured  urn, 
The  gray  old  rock,  the  leafy  woods,  return ; 
Robed  in  their  pride  the  lofty  oaks  appear, 
And  once  again  with  quickened  sense  I  hear, 
Through  the  low  murmur  of  the  leaves  that  stir, 
The  tinkling  teardrop  of  la  roche  qui  pleure. 

So  when  the  third  ripe  century  stands  complete, 
As  once  again  the  sons  of  Harvard  meet, 
Rejoicing,  numerous  as  the  seashore  sands, 
Drawn    from    all    quarters,  —  farthest    distant 

lands, 

Where  through  the  reeds  the  scaly  saurian  steals, 
Where  cold  Alaska  feeds  her  floundering  seals, 
Where  Plymouth,  glorying,  wears  her  iron  crown, 
Where  Sacramento  sees  the  suns  go  down ; 
Nay,  from  the  cloisters  whence  the  refluent  tide 
Wafts  their  pale  students  to  our  Mother's  side,  — 
Mid  all  the  tumult  that  the  day  shall  bring, 
While  all  the  echoes  shout,  and  roar,  and  ring, 


66  POEM. 

These  tinkling  lines,  oblivion's  easy  prey, 
Once  more  emerging  to  the  light  of  day, 
Not  all  unpleasing  to  the  listening  ear 
Shall  wake  the  memories  of  this  bygone  year, 
Heard  as  I  hear  the  measured  drops  that  flow 
From  the  gray  rock  of  wooded  Fontainebleau. 

Yet,  ere  I  leave,  one  loving  word  for  all 

Those  fresh  young  lives  that  wait  our  Mother's 

call: 
One    gift    is    yours,    kind    Nature's    richest 

dower,  — 
Youth,  the   fair   bud   that   holds   life's    opening 

flower, 

Full  of  high  hopes  no  coward  doubts  enchain, 
With  all  the  future  throbbing  in  its  brain, 
And  mightiest  instincts  which  the  beating  heart 
Fills  with  the  fire  its  burning  waves  impart. 
O  joyous  youth,  whose  glory  is  to  dare,  — 
Thy  foot  firm  planted  on  the  lowest  stair, 
Thine  eye  uplifted  to  the  loftiest  height 
Where  Fame  stands  beckoning  in  the  rosy  light, 
Thanks  for  thy  flattering  tales,  thy  fond  deceits, 
Thy  loving  lies,  thy  cheerful  smiling  cheats  ! 
Nature's  rash  promise  every  day  is  broke,  — 
A  thousand  acorns  breed  a  single  oak, 
The  myriad  blooms  that  make  the  orchard  gay 
In  barren  beauty  throw  their  lives  away ; 
Yet  shall  we  quarrel  with  the  sap  that  yields 
The  painted  blossoms  which  adorn  the  fields, 


POEM.  67 

"When  the  fair  orchard  wears  its  May-day  suit 
Of  pink-white  petals,  for  its  scanty  fruit  ? 
Thrice  happy  hours,  in  hope's  illusion  dressed, 
In  fancy's  cradle  nurtured  and  caressed, 
Though  rich  the  spoils  that  ripening  years  may 

bring, 

To  thee  the  dewdrops  of  the  Orient  cling,  — 
Not  all  the  dye-stuffs  from  the  vats  of  truth 
Can  match  the  rainbow  on  the  robes  of  youth ! 

Dear  unborn  children,  to  our  Mother's  trust 
We  leave  you,  fearless,  when  we  lie  in  dust : 
While  o'er  these  walls  the  Christian  banner  waves 
From  hallowed  lips  shall  flow  the  truth  that  saves ; 
While  o'er  those  portals  Veritas  you  read 
No  church  shall  bind  you  with  its  human  creed. 
Take  from  the  past  the  best  its  toil  has  won, 
But  learn  betimes  its  slavish  ruts  to  shun. 
Pass  the  old  tree  whose  withered  leaves  are  shed, 
Quit  the  old  paths  that  error  loved  to  tread, 
And  a  new  wreath  of  living  blossoms  seek, 
A  narrower  pathway  up  a  loftier  peak  ; 
Lose  not  your  reverence,  but  unmanly  fear 
Leave  far  behind  you,  all  who  enter  here ! 

As  once  of  old  from  Ida's  lofty  height 
The  flaming  signal  flashed  across  the  night, 
So  Harvard's  beacon  sheds  its  unspent  rays 
Till  every  watch-tower  shows  its  kindling  blaze. 
Caught  from  a  spark  and  fanned  by  every  gale, 


68  POEM. 

A  brighter  radiance  gilds  the  roofs  of  Yale  ; 
Amherst  and  Williams  bid  their  flambeaus  shine, 
And  Bowdoin  answers  through  her  groves  of  pine  ; 
O'er  Princeton's  sands  the  far  reflections  steal, 
Where  mighty  Edwards  stamped  his  iron  heel ; 
Nay,  on  the  hill  where  old  beliefs  were  bound 
Fast  as  if  Styx  had  girt  them  nine  times  round, 
Bursts  such  a  light  that  trembling  souls  inquire 
If  the  whole  church  of  Calvin  is  on  fire ! 
Well  may  they  ask,  for  what  so  brightly  burns 
As  a  dry  creed  that  nothing  ever  learns  ? 
Thus  link  by  link  is  knit  the  flaming  chain 
Lit  by  the  torch  of  Harvard's  hallowed  plain. 

Thy  son,  thy  servant,  dearest  Mother  mine, 
Lays  this  poor  offering  on  thy  holy  shrine, 
An  autumn  leaflet  to  the  wild  winds  tost, 
Touched  by  the  finger  of  November's  frost, 
With  sweet,  sad  memories  of  that  earlier  day, 
And  all  that  listened  to  my  first-born  lay. 
With  grateful  heart  this  glorious  morn  I  see,  — 
Would  that  my  tribute  worthier  were  of  thee ! 


POST-PRANDIAL. 

PHI    BETA  KAPPA. 

WENDELL  PHILLIPS,  ORATOR;  CHARLES  GODFREY  LE- 
LAITO,  POET. 

1881. 

"THE    Dutch  have   taken   Holland,"  —  so  the 

schoolboys  used  to  say  ; 
The  Dutch  have  taken  Harvard,  —  no  doubt  of 

that  to-day ! 
For  the  Wendells  were  low  Dutchmen,  and  all 

their  vrows  were  Vans  ; 
And  the  Breitmanns  are   high   Dutchmen,  and 

here  is  honest  Hans. 

Mynheers,  you  both  are  welcome  !     Fair  cousin 

Wendell  P., 
Our  ancestors  were  dwellers  beside  the  Zuyder 

Zee; 
Both  Grotius  and  Erasmus  were  countrymen  of 

we, 
And  Vondel  was  our  namesake,  though  he  spelt 

it  with  a  V. 

It  is  well  old  Evert  Jansen  sought  a  dwelling  over 
sea 


70  POST-PRANDIAL. 

On  the  margin  of  the  Hudson,  where  he  sampled 

you  and  me 
Through  our  grandsires  and  great-grandsires,  for 

you  would  n't  quite  agree 
With  the  steady-going  burghers  along  the  Zuyder 

Zee. 

Like  our  Motley's  John  of  Barnveld,  you  have 
always  been  inclined 

To  speak, —  well, —  somewhat  frankly,  —  to  let 
us  know  your  mind, 

And  the  Mynheers  would  have  told  you  to  be  cau 
tious  what  you  said, 

Or  else  that  silver  tongue  of  yours  might  cost 
your  precious  head. 

6 

But  we  're  very  glad  you  've  kept  it ;  it  was  al 
ways  Freedom's  own, 

And  whenever  Reason  chose  it  she  found  a  royal 
throne  ; 

You  have  whacked  us  with  your  sceptre ;  our 
backs  were  little  harmed, 

And  while  we  rubbed  our  bruises  we  owned  we 
had  been  charmed. 

And  you,  our  quasi  Dutchman,   what  welcome 

should  be  yours 
For   all   the   wise  prescriptions  that  work  your 

laughter-cures  ? 


POST-PRANDIAL.  71 

"  Shake  before  taking  "  ?  —  not  a  bit,  —  the  bot 
tle-cure  's  a  sham  ; 

Take  before  shaking,  and  you'll  find  it  shakes 
your  diaphragm. 

"Hans  Breitmann  gif  a  barty,  —  vhere  is  dot 

barty  now  ?  " 
On  every  shelf  where  wit  is  stored  to  smooth  the 

careworn  brow ! 
A  health  to  stout  Hans  Breitmann  !     How  long 

before  we  see 
Another  Hans  as  handsome,  —  as  bright  a  man 

as  he ! 


THE  FLANEUR. 

BOSTON   COMMOX,    DECEMBER    6,    1882. 
DUBING   THE   TRANSIT   OF   VENUS. 

I  LOVE  all  sights  of  earth  and  skies, 
From  flowers  that  glow  to  stars  that  shine ; 
The  comet  and  the  penny  show, 
All  curious  things,  above,  below, 
Hold  each  in  turn  my  wandering  eyes : 
I  claim  the  Christian  Pagan's  line, 
Humani  nihil,  —  even  so,  — 
And  is  not  human  life  divine  ? 

When  soft  the  western  breezes  blow, 

And  strolling  youths  meet  sauntering  maids, 

I  love  to  watch  the  stirring  trades 

Beneath  the  Vallombrosa  shades 

Our  much-enduring  elms  bestow  ; 

The  vender  and  his  rhetoric's  flow, 

That  lambent  stream  of  liquid  lies  ; 

The  bait  he  dangles  from  his  line, 

The  gudgeon  and  his  gold-washed  prize. 

I  halt  before  the  blazoned  sign 

That  bids  me  linger  to  admire 

The  drama  time  can  never  tire, 

The  little  hero  of  the  hunch, 


THE  FLANEUR.  73 

With  iron  arm  and  soul  of  fire, 

And  will  that  works  his  fierce  desire,  — 

Untamed,  unscared,  unconquered  Punch  ! 

My  ear  a  pleasing  torture  finds 

In  tones  the  withered  sibyl  grinds,  — 

The  dame  sans  merci's  broken  strain, 

Whom  I  erewhile,  perchance,  have  known, 

When  Orleans  filled  the  Bourbon  throne, 

A  siren  singing  by  the  Seine. 

But  most  I  love  the  tube  that  spies 
The  orbs  celestial  in  their  march  ; 
That  shows  the  comet  as  it  whisks 
Its  tail  across  the  planets'  disks, 
As  if  to  blind  their  blood-shot  eyes  ; 
Or  wheels  so  close  against  the  sun 
We  tremble  at  the  thought  of  risks 
Our  little  spinning  ball  may  run, 
To  pop  like  corn  that  children  parch, 
From  summer  something  overdone, 
And  roll,  a  cinder,  through  the  skies. 

Grudge  not  to-day  the  scanty  fee 
To  him  who  farms  the  firmament, 
To  whom  the  milky  way  is  free  ; 
Who  holds  the  wondrous  crystal  key, 
The  silent  Open  Sesame 
That  Science  to  her  sons  has  lent ; 
Who  takes  his  toll,  and  lifts  the  bar 
That  shuts  the  road  to  sun  and  star. 


74  THE  FLANEUR. 

If  Venus  only  comes  to  time, 

(And  prophets  say  she  must  and  shall,) 

To-day  will  hear  the  tinkling  chime 

Of  many  a  ringing  silver  dime, 

For  him  whose  optic  glass  supplies 

The  crowd  with  astronomic  eyes,  — 

The  Galileo  of  the  Mall. 

Dimly  the  transit  morning  broke ; 
The  sun  seemed  doubting  what  to  do, 
As  one  who  questions  how  to  dress, 
And  takes  his  doublets  from  the  press, 
And  halts  between  the  old  and  new. 
Please  Heaven  he  wear  his  suit  of  blue, 
Or  don,  at  least,  his  ragged  cloak, 
With  rents  that  show  the  azure  through ! 

I  go  the  patient  crowd  to  join 

That  round  the  tube  my  eyes  discern, 

The  last  new-comer  of  the  file, 

And  wait,  and  wait,  a  weary  while, 

And  gape,  and  stretch,  and  shrug,  and  smile, 

(For  each  his  place  must  fairly  earn, 

Hindmost  and  foremost,  in  his  turn,) 

Till  hitching  onward,  pace  by  pace, 

I  gain  at  last  the  envied  place, 

And  pay  the  white  exiguous  coin  : 

The  sun  and  I  are  face  to  face ; 

He  glares  at  me,  I  stare  at  him  ; 

And  lo !  my  straining  eye  has  found 


THE  FLANEUR.  75 

A  little  spot  that,  "black  and  round, 
Lies  near  the  crimsoned  fire-orb's  rim. 

0  blessed,  beauteous  evening  star, 

Well  named  for  her  whom  earth  adores,  — 
The  Lady  of  the  dove-drawn  car,  — 

1  know  thee  in  thy  white  simar ; 
But  veiled  in  black,  a  rayless  spot, 
Blank  as  a  careless  scribbler's  blot, 
Stripped  of  thy  robe  of  silvery  flame,  — 
The  stolen  robe  that  Night  restores 
When  Day  has  shut  his  golden  doors,  — 
I  see  thee,  yet  I  know  thee  not ; 

And  canst  thou  call  thyself  the  same  ? 

A  black,  round  spot,  —  and  that  is  all ; 
And  such  a  speck  our  earth  would  be 
If  he  who  looks  upon  the  stars 
Through  the  red  atmosphere  of  Mars 
Could  see  our  little  creeping  ball 
Across  the  disk  of  crimson  crawl 
As  I  our  sister  planet  see. 

And  art  thou,  then,  a  world  like  ours, 
Flung  from  the  orb  that  whirled  our  own 
A  molten  pebble  from  its  zone  ? 
How  must  thy  burning  sands  absorb 
The  fire-waves  of  the  blazing  orb, 
Thy  chain  so  short,  thy  path  so  near, 
Thy  flame-defying  creatures  hear 


76  THE  FLANEUR. 

The  maelstroms  of  the  photosphere ! 

And  is  thy  bosom  decked  with  flowers 

That  steal  their  bloom  from  scalding  showers  ? 

And  hast  thou  cities,  domes,  and  towers, 

And  life,  and  love  that  makes  it  dear, 

And  death  that  fills  thy  tribes  with  fear  ? 

Lost  in  my  dream,  my  spirit  soars 

Through  paths  the  wandering  angels  know  ; 

My  all-pervading  thought  explores 

The  azure  ocean's  lucent  shores  ; 

I  leave  my  mortal  self  below, 

As  up  the  star-lit  stairs  I  climb, 

And  still  the  widening  view  reveals 

In  endless  rounds  the  circling  wheels 

That  build  the  horologe  of  time. 

New  spheres,  new  suns,  new  systems  gleam  ; 

The  voice  no  earth-born  echo  hears 

Steals  softly  on  my  ravished  ears  : 

I  hear  them  "  singing  as  they  shine  "  — 

—  A  mortal's  voice  dissolves  my  dream  : 

My  patient  neighbor,  next  in  line, 

Hints  gently  there  are  those  who  wait. 

O  guardian  of  the  starry  gate, 

What  coin  shall  pay  this  debt  of  mine  ? 

Too  slight  thy  claim,  too  small  the  fee 

That  bids  thee  turn  the  potent  key 

The  Tuscan's  hand  has  placed  in  thine. 

Forgive  my  own  the  small  affront, 


THE  FLANEUR.  11 

The  insult  of  the  proffered  dime ; 
Take  it,  O  friend,  since  this  thy  wont, 
But  still  shall  faithful  memory  be 
A  bankrupt  debtor  unto  thee, 
And  pay  thee  with  a  grateful  rhyme. 


AVE. 

PRELUDE   TO    "  ILLUSTRATED   POEMS." 

FULL  well  I  know  the  frozen  hand  has  come 
That  smites  the  songs  of  grove  and  garden  dumb, 
And  chills  sad  autumn's  last  chrysanthemum ; 

Yet  would  I  find  one  blossom,  if  I  might, 

Ere  the  dark  loom  that  weaves  the  robe  of  white 

Hides  all  the  wrecks  of  summer  out  of  sight. 

Sometimes  in  dim  November's  narrowing  day, 
When  all  the  season's  pride  has  passed  away, 
As  mid  the  blackened  stems  and  leaves  we  stray, 

We  spy  in  sheltered  nook  or  rocky  cleft 
A  starry  disk  the  hurrying  winds  have  left, 
Of  all  its  blooming  sisterhood  bereft : 

Some  pansy,  with  its  wondering  baby  eyes  — 
Poor  wayside  nursling !  —  fixed  in  blank  surprise 
At  the  rough  welcome  of  unfriendly  skies  ; 

Or  golden  daisy,  —  will  it  dare  disclaim 
The  lion's  tooth,  to  wear  this  gentler  name  ? 
Or  blood-red  salvia,  with  its  lips  aflame  : 


AVE.  79 

The  storms  have  stripped  the  lily  and  the  rose, 
Still  on  its  cheek  the  flush  of  summer  glows, 
And  all  its  heart-leaves  kindle  as  it  blows. 

So  had  I  looked  some  bud  of  song  to  find 
The  careless  winds  of  autumn  left  behind, 
With  these  of  earlier  seasons'  growth  to  bind. 

Ah  me  !  my  skies  are  dark  with  sudden  grief, 
A  flower  lies  faded  on  my  garnered  sheaf ; 
Yet  let  the  sunshine  gild  this  virgin  leaf,  — 

The  joyous,  blessed  sunshine  of  the  past, 

Still  with  me,  though  the  heavens  are  overcast,  — 

The  light  that  shines  while  life  and  memory  last. 

Go,  pictured  rhymes,  for  loving  readers  meant ; 
Bring  back  the  smiles  your  jocund  morning  lent, 
And  warm  their  hearts  with  sunbeams  yet   un 
spent  ! 
BEVEKLY  FARMS,  July  24,  1884. 


KING'S  CHAPEL. 

READ   AT   THE    TWO    HUNDREDTH   ANNIVERSARY. 

Is  it  a  weanling's  weakness  for  the  past 
That  in  the  stormy,  rebel-breeding  town, 

Swept  clean  of  relics  by  the  levelling  blast, 

Still    keeps    our    gray   old    chapel's    name    of 
"  King's,"  — 

Still  to  its  outworn  symbols  fondly  clings, 
Its  unchurched  mitres  and  its  empty  crown  ? 

Poor  harmless  emblems  !     All  has  shrunk  away 
That  made  them  gorgons  in  the  patriot's  eyes  ; 

The  priestly  plaything  harms  us  not  to-day  ; 

The  gilded  crown  is  but  a  pleasing  show, 

An  old-world  heirloom,  left  from  long  ago, 
Wreck  of  the  past  that  memory  bids  us  prize. 

Lightly  we  glance  the  fresh-cut  marbles  o'er ; 

Those  two  of  earlier  date  our  eyes  enthrall : 
The  proud  old  Briton's  by  the  western  door, 
And  hers,  the  Lady  of  Colonial  days, 
Whose      virtues     live     in     long-drawn     classic 
phrase,  — 

The  fair  Francesca  of  the  southern  wall. 


KING'S  CHAPEL.  81 

Ay  !  those  were  goodly  men  that  Reynolds  drew, 
And  stately  dames  our  Copley's  canvas  holds, 
To  their  old  Church,  their  Royal  Master,  true, 
Proud  of  the  claim  their  valiant  sires  had  earned, 
That  "  gentle  blood,"  not  lightly  to  be  spurned, 
Save  by  the  churl  ungenerous  Nature  moulds. 

All  vanished !     It  were  idle  to  complain 

That  ere  the  fruits  shall  come  the  flowers  must 

fall; 

Yet  somewhat  we  have  lost  amidst  our  gain, 
Some  rare  ideals  time  may  not  restore,  — 
The  charm  of  courtly  breeding,  seen  no  more, 
And  reverence,  dearest  ornament  of  all. 

—  Thus  musing,  to  the  western  wall  I  came, 

Departing  :  lo  !  a  tablet  fresh  and  fair, 
Where   glistened   many  a  youth's   remembered 

name 

In  golden  letters  on  the  snow-white  stone,  — 
Young  lives  these  aisles  and  arches  once  have 

known, 
Their  country's  bleeding  altar  might  not  spare. 

These  died  that  we  might  claim  a  soil  unstained, 

Save  by  the  blood  of  heroes  ;  their  bequests 
A  realm  unsevered  and  a  race  unchained. 
Has  purer  blood  through  Norman  veins  come 
down 


82  KJNG'S    CHAPEL. 

From  the  rough  knights  that  clutched  the  Saxon's 

crown 

Than   warmed   the   pulses   in    these    faithful 
breasts  ? 

These,  too,  shall  live  in  history's  deathless  page, 
High  on  the  slow-wrought  pedestals  of  fame, 

Eanged  with  the  heroes  of  remoter  age ; 

They  could  not  die  who  left  their  nation  free, 

Firm  as  the  rock,  unfettered  as  the  sea, 

Its  heaven  unshadowed  by  the  cloud  of  shame. 

While  on  the  storied  past  our  memory  dwells, 
Our  grateful  tribute  shall  not  be  denied,  — 

The  wreath,  the  cross  of  rustling  immortelles ; 

And  willing  hands  shall  clear    each  darkening 
bust, 

As  year  by  year  sifts  down  the  clinging  dust 
On  Shirley's  beauty  and  on  Vassall's  pride. 

But  for  our  own,  our  loved  and  lost,  we  bring 
With  throbbing  hearts  and  tears  that  still  must 

flow, 
In  full-heaped   hands,    the    opening  flowers    of 

spring, 

Lilies  half-blown,  and  budding  roses,  red 
As  their  young  cheeks,  before  the  blood  was  shed 
That  lent  their  morning  bloom  its  generoua 
glow. 


KING'S   CHAPEL.  83 

Ah,  who  shall  count  a  rescued  nation's  debt, 

Or  sum  in  words  our  martyrs'  silent  claims  ? 
Who  shall  our  heroes'  dread  exchange  forget,  — 
All  life,  youth,  hope,  could  promise  to  allure 
For  all  that  soul  could  brave  or  flesh  endure  ? 
They  shaped  our  future ;  we  but  carve  their 
names. 


HYMN 

FOR    THE   SAME   OCCASION. 

SUNG  BY  THE   CONGREGATION  TO     THE     TUNE    OF     TAL- 
LIS'S   EVENING  HYMN. 

O'ERSHADOWED  by  the  walls  that  climb, 

Piled  up  in  air  by  living  hands, 
A  rock  amid  the  waves  of  time, 

Our  gray  old  house  of  worship  stands. 

High  o'er  the  pillared  aisles  we  love 
The  symbols  of  the  past  look  down  ; 

Unharmed,  unharming,  throned  above, 
Behold  the  mitre  and  the  crown  ! 

Let  not  our  younger  faith  forget 

The  loyal  souls  that  held  them  dear ; 

The  prayers  we  read  their  tears  have  wet, 
The  hymns  we  sing  they  loved  to  hear. 

The  memory  of  their  earthly  throne 

Still  to  our  holy  temple  clings, 
But  here  the  kneeling  suppliants  own 

One  only  Lord,  the  King  of  kings. 


FOR  KING'S  CHAPEL  ANNIVERSARY.      85 

Hark !  while  our  hymn  of  grateful  praise 
The  solemn  echoing  vaults  prolong, 

The  far-off  voice  of  earlier  days 

Blends  with  our  own  in  hallowed  song : 

To  Him  who  ever  lives  and  reigns, 
Whom  all  the  hosts  of  heaven  adore, 

Who  lent  the  life  His  breath  sustains, 
Be  glory  now  and  evermore  ! 


HYMN.  — THE  WORD   OF   PROMISE, 

(by  supposition) 

An  Hymn  set  forth  to  be  sung  by  the  Great  Assembly  at 
Newtown,  [Mass.]  Mo.  12.  1.  1636. 

[Written  by  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES,  eldest  son  of  Rev.  ABIEL 
HOLMES,  eighth  Pastor  of  the  First  Church  in  Cambridge,  Massa 
chusetts.] 

LORD,  Thou  hast  led  us  as  of  old 

Thine  Arm  led  forth  the  chosen  Race 

Through  Foes  that  raged,  through  Floods  that 

roll'd, 
To  Canaan's  far  off  Dwelling-Place. 

Here  is  Thy  bounteous  Table  spread, 

Thy  Manna  falls  on  every  Field, 
Thy  Grace  our  hungering  Souls  hath  fed, 

Thy  Might  hath  been  our  Spear  and  Shield. 

Lift  high  Thy  Buckler,  Lord  of  Hosts ! 

Guard  Thou  Thy  Servants,  Sons  and  Sires, 
While  on  the  Godless  heathen  Coasts 

They  light  Thine  Israel's  Altar-fires ! 

The  salvage  Wilderness  remote 

Shall  hear  Thy  Works  and  Wonders  sung ; 


HYMN.  — THE  WORD   OF  PROMISE.        87 

So  from  the  Rock  that  Moses  smote 
The  Fountain  of  the  Desart  sprung. 

Soon  shall  the  slumbering  Morn  awake, 
From  wandering  Stars  of  Errour  freed, 

When  Christ  the  Bread  of  Heaven  shall  break 
For  Saints  that  own  a  common  Creed. 

The  Walls  that  fence  His  Flocks  apart 
Shall  crack  and  crumble  in  Decay, 

And  every  Tongue  and  every  Heart 
Shall  welcome  in  the  new-born  Day. 

Then  shall  His  glorious  Church  rejoice 
His  Word  of  Promise  to  recall,  — 

ONE  SHELTERING  FOLD,  ONE  SHEPHERD'S  VOICE, 
ONE  GOD  AND  FATHER  OVER  ALL  ! 


HYMN. 

READ  AT  THE  DEDICATION  OF  THE  OLIVER 
WENDELL  HOLMES  HOSPITAL  AT  HUDSON,  WIS 
CONSIN,  JUNE  7,  1887.  « 

ANGEL  of  love,  for  every  grief 

Its  soothing  balm  tliy  mercy  brings, 

For  every  pang  its  healing  leaf, 

For  homeless  want,  thine  outspread  wings. 

Enough  for  thee  the  pleading  eye, 
The  knitted  brow  of  silent  pain  ; 

The  portals  open  to  a  sigh 

Without  the  clank  of  bolt  or  chain. 

Who  is  our  brother  ?     He  that  lies 
Left  at  the  wayside,  bruised  and  sore  : 

His  need  our  open  hand  supplies, 
His  welcome  waits  him  at  our  door. 

Not  ours  to  ask  in  freezing  tones 
His  race,  his  calling,  or  his  creed  ; 

Each  heart  the  tie  of  kinship  owns, 

When  those  are  human  veins  that  bleed. 

Here  stand  the  champions  to  defend 
From  every  wound  that  flesh  can  feel ; 


HYMN.  89 

Here  science,  patience,  skill,  shall  blend 
To  save,  to  calm,  to  help,  to  heal. 

Father  of  Mercies  !     Weak  and  frail, 
Thy  guiding  hand  Thy  children  ask ; 

Let  not  the  Great  Physician  fail 
To  aid  us  in  our  holy  task. 

Source  of  all  truth,  and  love,  and  light, 
That  warm  and  cheer  our  earthly  days, 

Be  ours  to  serve  Thy  will  aright, 
Be  Thine  the  glory  and  the  praise  ! 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  PRESIDENT  GAR- 
FIELD. 


FALLEN  with  autumn's  falling  leaf 
Ere  yet  his  summer's  noon  was  past, 

Our  friend,  our  guide,  our  trusted  chief,  — 
What  words  can  match  a  woe  so  vast ! 

And  whose  the  chartered  claim  to  speak 
The  sacred  grief  where  all  have  part, 

Where  sorrow  saddens  every  cheek 
And  broods  in  every  aching  heart  ? 

Yet  Nature  prompts  the  burning  phrase 
That  thrills  the  hushed  and  shrouded  hall, 

The  loud  lament,  the  sorrowing  praise, 
The  silent  tear  that  love  lets  fall. 

In  loftiest  verse,  in  lowliest  rhyme, 

Shall  strive  unblamed  the  minstrel  choir,  - 

The  singers  of  the  new-born  time, 

And  trembling  age  with  outworn  lyre. 

No  room  for  pride,  no  place  for  blame,  — 
We  fling  our  blossoms  on  the  grave, 


DEATH  OF  PRESIDENT  GARF1ELD.        91 

Pale,  —  scentless,  —  faded,  —  all  we  claim, 
This  only,  —  what  we  had  we  gave. 

Ah,  could  the  grief  of  all  who  mourn 

Blend  in  one  voice  its  bitter  cry, 
The  wail  to  heaven's  high  arches  borne 

Would  echo  through  the  caverned  sky. 


II. 

O  happiest  land,  whose  peaceful  choice 
Fills  with  a  breath  its  empty  throne  ! 

God,  speaking  through  thy  people's  voice, 
Has  made  that  voice  for  once  His  own. 

No  angry  passion  shakes  the  state 
Whose  weary  servant  seeks  for  rest ; 

And  who  could  fear  that  scowling  hate 
Would  strike  at  that  unguarded  breast  ? 

He  stands,  unconscious  of  his  doom, 
In  manly  strength,  erect,  serene  ; 

Around  him  Summer  spreads  her  bloom ; 
He  falls,  —  what  horror  clothes  the  scene  ! 

How  swift  the  sudden  flash  of  woe 

Where  all  was  bright  as  childhood's  dream ! 
As  if  from  heaven's  ethereal  bow 

Had  leaped  the  lightning's  arrowy  gleam. 


92       DEATH  OF  PRESIDENT  GARFIELD. 

Blot  the  foul  deed  from  history's  page ; 

Let  not  the  all-betraying  sun 
Blush  for  the  day  that  stains  an  age 

When  murder's  blackest  wreath  was  won. 


in. 

Pale  on  his  couch  the  sufferer  lies, 
The  weary  battle-ground  of  pain  : 

Love  tends  his  pillow ;  Science  tries 
Her  every  art,  alas  !  in  vain. 

The  strife  endures  how  long  !  how  long ! 

Life,  death,  seem  balanced  in  the  scale, 
While  round  his  bed  a  viewless  throng 

Await  each  morrow's  changing  tale. 

In  realms  the  desert  ocean  parts 

What  myriads  watch  with  tear-filled  eyes, 
His  pulse-beats  echoing  in  their  hearts, 

His  breathings  counted  with  their  sighs  ! 

Slowly  the  stores  of  life  are  spent, 
Yet  hope  still  battles  with  despair ; 

Will  Heaven  not  yield  when  knees  are  bent  ? 
Answer,  O  Thou  that  hearest  prayer  ! 

But  silent  is  the  brazen  sky  ; 

On  sweeps  the  meteor's  threatening  train, 
Unswerving  Nature's  mute  reply, 

Bound  in  her  adamantine  chain. 


DEATH  OF  PRESIDENT  GARFIELD.    93 

Not  ours  the  verdict  to  decide 

Whom  death  shall  claim  or  skill  shall  save ; 
The  hero's  life  though  Heaven  denied, 

It  gave  our  land  a  martyr's  grave. 

Nor  count  the  teaching  vainly  sent 

How  human  hearts  their  griefs  may  share,  — 
The  lesson  woman's  love  has  lent, 

What  hope  may  do,  what  faith  can  bear ! 

Farewell !  the  leaf-strown  earth  enfolds 
Our  stay,  our  pride,  our  hopes,  our  fears, 

And  autumn's  golden  sun  beholds 
A  nation  bowed,  a  world  in  tears. 


THE   GOLDEN   FLOWER. 

WHEN  Advent  dawns  with  lessening  days, 

While  earth  awaits  the  angels'  hymn  ; 
When  bare  as  branching  coral  sways 

In  whistling  winds  each  leafless  limb  ; 
When  spring  is  but  a  spendthrift's  dream, 

And  summer's  wealth  a  wasted  dower, 
Nor  dews  nor  sunshine  may  redeem,  — 

Then  autumn  coins  his  Golden  Flower. 

Soft  was  the  violet's  vernal  hue, 

Fresh  was  the  rose's  morning  red, 
Full-orbed  the  stately  dahlia  grew,  — 

All  gone  !  their  short-lived  splendors  shed. 
The  shadows,  lengthening,  stretch  at  noon ; 

The  fields  are  stripped,  the  groves  are  dumb ; 
The  frost-flowers  greet  the  icy  moon,  — 

Then  blooms  the  bright  chrysanthemum. 

The  stiffening  turf  is  white  with  snow, 
Yet  still  its  radiant  disks  are  seen 

Where  soon  the  hallowed  morn  will  show 
The  wreath  and  cross  of  Christmas  green  ; 

As  if  in  autumn's  dying  days 
It  heard  the  heavenly  song  afar, 


THE   GOLDEN  FLOWER.  95 

And  opened  all  its  glowing  rays, 

The  herald  lamp  of  Bethlehem's  star. 

Orphan  of  summer,  kindly  sent 

To  cheer  the  fading  year's  decline, 
In  all  that  pitying  Heaven  has  lent 

No  fairer  pledge  of  hope  than  thine. 
Yes  !  June  lies  hid  beneath  the  snow, 

And  winter's  unborn  heir  shall  claim 
For  every  seed  that  sleeps  below 

A  spark  that  kindles  into  flame. 

Thy  smile  the  scowl  of  winter  braves 

Last  of  the  bright-robed,  flowery  train, 
Soft  sighing  o'er  the  garden  graves, 

"  Farewell !  farewell !  we  meet  again  !  " 
So  may  life's  chill  November  bring 

Hope's  golden  flower,  the  last  of  all, 
Before  we  hear  the  angels  sing 

Where  blossoms  never  fade  and  fall ! 


NO  TIME  LIKE  THE   OLD   TIME. 

THERE  is  no  time  like  the  old  time,  when  you  and 

I  were  young. 
When  the  buds  of  April  blossomed,  and  the  birds 

of  spring-time  sung ! 
The  garden's  brightest  glories  by  summer  suns 

are  nursed, 
But  oh,  the  sweet,  sweet  violets,  the  flowers  that 

opened  first ! 

There  is  no  place  like  the  old  place,  where  you 

and  I  were  born, 
Where  we  lifted  first  our  eyelids  on  the  splendors 

of  the  morn 
From  the  milk-white  breast  that  warmed  us,  from 

the  clinging  arms  that  bore, 
Where  the  dear  eyes  glistened  o'er  us  that  will 

look  on  us  no  more ! 

There  is  no  friend  like  the  old  friend,  who  has 

shared  our  morning  days, 
No  greeting   like  his  welcome,  no  homage  like 

his  praise  : 
Fame    is   the    scentless    sunflower,    with   gaudy 

crown  of  gold ; 
But  friendship  is  the  breathing  rose,  with  sweets 

in  every  fold. 


NO   TIME  LIKE   THE  OLD  TIME.          97 

There  is  no  love  like  the  old  love,  that  we  courted 
in  our  pride ; 

Though  our  leaves  are  falling,  falling,  and  we  're 
fading  side  by  side, 

There  are  blossoms  all  around  us  with  the  colors 
of  our  dawn, 

And  we  live  in  borrowed  sunshine  when  the  day- 
star  is  withdrawn. 

There  are  no  times  like    the  old  times,  —  they 

shall  never  be  forgot ! 
There  is  no   place   like   the   old   place,  —  keep 

green  the  dear  old  spot ! 
There  are  no  friends  like  our  old  friends,  —  may 

Heaven  prolong  their  lives  ! 
There  are  no  loves   like   our  old   loves,  —  God 

bless  our  loving  wives  ! 
1865. 


THE  MORNING  VISIT. 

A  SICK  man's  chamber,  though  it  often  boast 
The  grateful  presence  of  a  literal  toast, 
Can  hardly  claim,  amidst  its  various  wealth, 
The  right  unchallenged  to  propose  a  health  ; 
Yet  though  its  tenant  is  denied  the  feast, 
Friendship  must  launch  his  sentiment  at  least, 
As  prisoned  damsels,  locked  from  lovers'  lips, 
Toss  them  a  kiss  from  off  their  fingers'  tips. 

The  morning  visit,  —  not  till  sickness  falls 
In  the  charmed  circles  of  your  own  safe  walls  ; 
Till  fever's  throb  and  pain's  relentless  rack 
Stretch  you  all  helpless  on  your  aching  back  ; 
Not  till  you  play  the  patient  in  your  turn, 
The  morning  visit's  mystery  shall  you  learn. 

'T  is  a  small  matter,  in  your  neighbor's  case, 
To  charge  your  fee  for  showing  him  your  face  ; 
You  skip  up-stairs,  inquire,  inspect,  and  touch, 
Prescribe,  take  leave,  and  off  to  twenty  such. 

But  when  at  length  by  fate's  transferred  decree 
The  visitor  becomes  the  visitee  : 
Oh,  then,  indeed,  it  pulls  another  string ; 
Yeur  ox  is  gored,  and  that 's  a  different  thing ! 


THE  MORNING    VISIT.  99 

Your  friend  is  sick  :  phlegmatic  as  a  Turk, 
You  write  your  recipe  and  let  it  work  ; 
Not  yours  to  stand  the  shiver  and  the  frown, 
And  sometimes  worse,  with  which  your  draught 

goes  down. 

Calm  as  a  clock  your  knowing  hand  directs, 
Rhei,  jalapoe  ana  grana  sex, 
Or  traces  on  some  tender  missive's  back, 
Scrupulos  duos  pulveris  ipecac  ; 
And    leaves    your    patient    to    his   qualms    and 

gripes, 
Cool  as  a  sportsman  banging  at  his  snipes. 

But  change  the  time,  the  person,  and  the  place, 

And  be  yourself  "  the  interesting  case," 

You  '11  gain  some  knowledge  which  it 's  well  to 

learn  ; 

In  future  practice  it  may  serve  your  turn. 
Leeches,  for  instance,  —  pleasing  creatures  quite, 
Try  them,  —  and   bless   you,  —  don't   you   find 

they  bite  ? 

You  raise  a  blister  for  the  smallest  cause, 
But  be  yourself  the  sitter  whom  it  draws, 
And  trust  my  statement,  you  will  not  deny 
The  worst  of  draughtsmen  is  your  Spanish  fly ! 
It 's  mighty  easy  ordering  when  you  please 
Infusi  senncB  capiat  uncias  tres  ; 
It 's  mighty  different  when  you  quackle  down 
Your  own  three  ounces  of  the  liquid  brown. 


100  THE  MORNING   VISIT. 

Pilula,  pulvis,  —  pleasant  words  enough, 
When  other  throats  receive  the  shocking  stuff ; 
But  oh,  what  flattery  can  disguise  the  groan 
That  meets  the  gulp  which  sends  it  through  your 

own  ! 

Be  gentle,  then,  though  Art's  unsparing  rules 
Give  you  the  handling  of  her  sharpest  tools ; 
Use  them  not  rashly,  —  sickness  is  enough  ; 
Be  always  "  ready,"  but  be  never  "  rough." 

Of  all  the  ills  that  suffering  man  endures, 
The  largest  fraction  liberal  Nature  cures  ; 
Of  those  remaining,  't  is  the  smallest  part 
Yields  to  the  efforts  of  judicious  Art ; 
But  simple  Kindness,  kneeling  by  the  bed 
To  shift  the  pillow  for  the  sick  man's  head, 
Give  the  fresh  draught  to  cool  the  lips  that  burn, 
Fan  the  hot  brow,  the  weary  frame  to  turn,  — 
Kindness,  untutored  by  our  grave  M.  D.'s, 
But   Nature's    graduate,    whom   she   schools    to 

please, 
Wins  back  more  sufferers   with  her   voice  and 

smile 
Than  all  the  trumpery  in  the  druggist's  pile. 

Once  more,  be  quiet :  coming  up  the  stair, 

Don't  be  a  plantigrade,  a  human  bear, 

But,  stealing  softly  on  the  silent  toe, 

Reach  the  sick  chamber  ere  you  're  heard  below. 

Whatever  changes  there  may  greet  your  eyes, 


THE  M  ORXINQ;,  V'JSFfi  ',  V  '  J-  ]  ' 


Let  not  your  looks  proclaim  the  least  surprise  ; 
It  's  not  your  business  by  your  face  to  show 
All  that  your  patient  does  not  want  to  know  ; 
Nay,  use  your  optics  with  considerate  care, 
And  don't  abuse  your  privilege  to  stare. 
But  if  your  eyes  may  probe  him  overmuch, 
Beware  still  further  how  you  rudely  touch  ; 
Don't  clutch  his  carpus  in  your  icy  fist, 
But  warm  your  fingers  ere  you  take  the  wrist. 
If  the  poor  victim  needs  must  be  percussed, 
Don't  make  an  anvil  of  his  aching  bust  ; 
(Doctors  exist  within  a  hundred  miles 
Who  thump  a  thorax  as  they  'd  hammer  piles  ;) 
If  you  must  listen  to  his  doubtful  chest, 
Catch  the  essentials,  and  ignore  the  rest. 
Spare  him  ;  the  sufferer  wants  of  you  and  art 
A  track  to  steer  by,  not  a  finished  chart. 
So  of  your  questions  :  don't  in  mercy  try 
To  pump  your  patient  absolutely  dry  ; 
He  's  not  a  mollusk  squirming  in  a  dish, 
You  're  not  Agassiz,  and  he  's  not  a  fish. 

And  last,  not  least,  in  each  perplexing  case, 
Learn  the  sweet  magic  of  a  cheerful  face  ; 
Not  always  smiling,  but  at  least  serene, 
When  grief  and  anguish  cloud  the  anxious  scene. 
Each  look,  each  movement,  every  word  and  tone, 
Should  tell  your  patient  you  are  all  his  own  ; 
Not  the  mere  artist  purchased  to  attend, 
But  the  warm,  ready,  self-forgetting  friend, 


VISIT. 

Whose  genial  visit  in  itself  combines 
The  best  of  cordials,  tonics,  anodynes. 

Such  is  the  visit  that  from  day  to  day 
Sheds  o'er  my  chamber  its  benignant  ray. 
I  give  his  health,  who  never  cared  to  claim 
Her  babbling  homage  from  the  tongue  of  Fame  ; 
Unmoved  by  praise,  he  stands  by  all  contest, 
The  truest,  noblest,  wisest,  kindest,  best. 
1849. 


HAIL,  COLUMBIA! 
1798. 

THE  FIRST  VERSE  OF  THE  SONG,  BY  JOSEPH  HOP- 
KINSON. 

' '  HAIL,  Columbia !     Happy  land ! 
Hail,  ye  heroes,  heaven-born  band, 

Who  fought  and  bled  in  Freedom's  cause, 

Who  fought  and  bled  in  Freedom's  cause, 
And  when  the  storm  of  war  was  gone 
Enjoy' d  the  peace  your  valor  won. 

Let  independence  be  our  boast, 

Ever  mindful  what  it  cost ; 

Ever  grateful  for  the  prize, 

Let  its  altar  reach  the  skies. 

"  Firm  —  united  —  let  us  be, 
Rallying  round  our  Liberty ; 
As  a  band  of  brothers  join'd, 
Peace  and  safety  we  shall  find." 


ADDITIONAL   VERSES 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  REQUEST  OF  THE  COMMITTEE  FOB 
THE  CONSTITUTIONAL  CENTENNIAL  CELEBRATION  AT 
PHILADELPHIA,  1887. 

LOOK  our  ransomed  shores  around, 
Peace  and  safety  we  have  found ! 


104  HAIL,    COLUMBIA! 

Welcome,  friends  who  once  were  foes ! 

Welcome,  friends  who  once  were  foes, 
To  all  the  conquering  years  have  gained,  — 
A  nation's  rights,  a  race  unchained  ! 

Children  of  the  day  new-born, 

Mindful  of  its  glorious  morn, 

Let  the  pledge  our  fathers  signed 

Heart  to  heart  forever  bind  ! 

While  the  stars  of  heaven  shall  burn, 
While  the  ocean  tides  return, 
Ever  may  the  circling  sun 
Find  the  Many  still  are  One ! 

Graven  deep  with  edge  of  steel, 
Crowned  with  Victory's  crimson  seal, 

All  the  world  their  names  shall  read  ! 

All  the  world  their  names  shall  read, 
Enrolled  with  his,  the  Chief  that  led 
The  hosts  whose  blood  for  us  was  shed. 

Pay  our  sires  their  children's  debt, 

Love  and  honor,  nor  forget 

Only  Union's  golden  key 

Guards  the  Ark  of  Liberty  ! 

While  the  stars  of  heaven  shall  burn, 
While  the  ocean  tides  return, 
Ever  may  the  circling  sun 
Find  the  Many  still  are  One  ! 


HAIL,   COLUMBIA!  105 

Hail,  Columbia  !  strong  and  free, 
Throned  in  hearts  from  sea  to  sea  ! 

Thy  march  triumphant  still  pursue  ! 

Thy  march  triumphant  still  pursue 
With  peaceful  stride  from  zone  to  zone, 
Till  Freedom  finds  the  world  her  own  ! 

Blest  in  Union's  holy  ties, 

Let  our  grateful  song  arise, 

Every  voice  its  tribute  lend, 

All  in  loving  chorus  blend ! 

While  the  stars  in  heaven  shall  burn, 
While  the  ocean  tides  return, 
Ever  shall  the  circling  sun 
\\  Find  the  Many  still  are  One ! 


POEM 

FOB  THE  DEDICATION  OF  THE  FOUNTAIN  AT 
STRATFORD-ON-AVON,  PRESENTED  BY  GEORGE 
W.  CHILDS,  OF  PHILADELPHIA. 

WELCOME,  thrice  welcome  is  thy  silvery  gleam, 

Thou  long-imprisoned  stream ! 
Welcome  the  tinkle  of  thy  crystal  beads 
As  plashing  raindrops  to  the  flowery  meads, 
As  summer's  breath  to  Avon's  whispering  reeds  ! 
From  rock-walled  channels,  drowned  in  rayless 
night, 

Leap  forth  to  life  and  light ; 
Wake  from  the  darkness  of  thy  troubled  dream, 
And  greet  with  answering  smile  the  morning's 
beam ! 

No  purer  lymph  the  white-limbed  Naiad  knows 

Than  from  thy  chalice  flows  ; 
Not  the  bright  spring  of  Afric's  sunny  shores, 
Starry  with  spangles  washed  from  golden  ores, 
Nor  glassy  stream  Bandusia's  fountain  pours, 
Nor  wave  translucent  where  Sabrina  fair 

Braids  her  loose-flowing  hair, 
Nor  the  swift  current,  stainless  as  it  rose 
Where  chill  Arveiron  steals  from  Alpine  snows. 


FO UNTAIN  AT  S TRATFORD-OX-A  VON.    107 

Here  shall  the  traveller  stay  his  weary  feet 

To  seek  thy  calm  retreat ; 

Here  at  high  noon  the  brown-armed  reaper  rest ; 
Here,  when  the  shadows,  lengthening  from  the 

west, 

Call  the  mute  song-bird  to  his  leafy  nest, 
Matron  and  maid  shall  chat  the  cares  away 

That  brooded  o'er  the  day, 
While   flocking   round   them  troops  of  children 

meet, 
And  all  the  arches  ring  with  laughter  sweet. 

Here  shall  the  steed,  his  patient  life  who  spends 

In  toil  that  never  ends, 

Hot  from  his  thirsty  tramp  o'er  hill  and  plain, 
Plunge  his  red  nostrils,  while  the  torturing  rein 
Drops  in  loose  loops  beside  his  floating  mane  ; 
Nor  the  poor  brute  that  shares  his  master's  lot 

Find  his  small  needs  forgot,  — 
Truest  of  humble,  long-enduring  friends, 
Whose  presence  cheers,  whose  guardian  care  de 
fends  ! 

Here  lark  and  thrush  and  nightingale  shall  sip, 
And  skimming  swallows  dip, 

And   strange  shy  wanderers  fold  their  lustrous 
plumes 

Fragrant  from  bowers  that  lent  their  sweet  per 
fumes 

Where  Paestum's  rose  or  Persia's  lilac  blooms  ; 


108    FOUNTAIN  AT  STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 

Here  from  his  cloud  the  eagle  stoop  to  drink 

At  the  full  basin's  brink, 
And  whet  his  beak  against  its  rounded  lip, 
His  glossy  feathers  glistening  as  they  drip. 

Here  shall  the  dreaming  poet  linger  long, 
Far  from  his  listening  throng,  — 

Nor  lute  nor  lyre  his  trembling  hand  shall  bring  ; 

Here  no  frail  Muse  shall  imp  her  crippled  wing, 

No  faltering  minstrel  strain  his  throat  to  sing  ! 

These  hallowed  echoes  who  shall  dare  to  claim 
Whose  tuneless  voice  would  shame, 

Whose  jangling  chords  with  jarring  notes  would 
wrong 

The  nymphs  that  heard  the  Swan  of  Avon's  song  ? 

What  visions  greet  the  pilgrim's  raptured  eyes  ! 

What  ghosts  made  real  rise ! 
The   dead  return,  —  they   breathe,  —  they   live 

again, 

Joined  by  the  host  of  Fancy's  airy  train, 
Fresh  from  the  springs  of  Shakespeare's  quick 
ening  brain ! 
The  stream  that  slakes  the  soul's  diviner  thirst 

Here  found  the  sunbeams  first ; 
Rich  with  his  fame,  not  less  shall  memory  prize 
The  gracious  gift  that  humbler  wants  supplies. 

O'er  the  wide  waters  reached  the  hand  that  gave 
To  all  this  bounteous  wave,  . 


FO  UNTAIN  AT  S TRATFORD-ON-A  VON.    109 

With   health   and   strength   and   joyous  beauty 

fraught ; 
Blest   be   the   generous    pledge    of    friendship, 

brought 

From  the  far  home  of  brothers'  love,  unb ought ! 
Long  may  fair  Avon's  fountain  flow,  enrolled 

With  storied  shrines  of  old, 
Castalia's  spring,  Egeria's  dewy  cave, 
And  Horeb's  rock  the  God  of  Israel  clave ! 

Land  of  our  fathers,  ocean  makes  us  two, 

But  heart  to  heart  is  true ! 
Proud  is  your  towering  daughter  in  the  West, 
Yet  in  her  burning  life-blood  reign  confest 
Her  mother's  pulses  beating  in  her  breast. 
This  holy  fount,  whose  rills  from  heaven  descend, 

Its  gracious  drops  shall  lend,  — 
Both  foreheads  bathed  in  that  baptismal  dew, 
And  love  make  one  the  old  home  and  the  new ! 
August  29,  1887. 


TO    THE     POETS     WHO    ONLY     READ 
AND  LISTEN. 

WHEN  evening's  shadowy  fingers  fold 

The  flowers  of  every  hue, 
Some  shy,  half-opened  bud  will  hold 

Its  drop  of  morning's  dew. 

Sweeter  with  every  sunlit  hour 
The  trembling  sphere  has  grown, 

Till  all  the  fragrance  of  the  flower 
Becomes  at  last  its  own. 

We  that  have  sung  perchance  may  find 

Our  little  meed  of  praise, 
And  round  our  pallid  temples  bind 

The  wreath  of  fading  bays  : 

Ah,  Poet,  who  hast  never  spent 

Thy  breath  in  idle  strains, 
For  thee  the  dewdrop  morning  lent 

Still  in  thy  heart  remains ; 

Unwasted,  in  its  perfumed  cell 

It  waits  the  evening  gale  ; 
Then  to  the  azure  whence  it  fell 

Its  lingering  sweets  exhale. 


• 

. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


IAM   ft  1345 

JAN   39    ivtv 

» 

• 

1 

LD  21-100m-12,  '43  (8796s) 

397145 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


